


A Lonely Vigil

by saltnhalo



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parent John Winchester, Church Grim Castiel, Ghost Castiel (Supernatural), Happy Ending, Hunter Dean Winchester, I promise, Light Angst, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Strangers to Lovers, as slow as it can be in 30k
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-17
Updated: 2020-05-10
Packaged: 2021-02-27 13:55:18
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,532
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22288231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo/pseuds/saltnhalo
Summary: Castiel Novak is twenty-six years old when he's killed in the Civil War. The first soul to be laid to rest in the grounds of the new Lawrence Memorial Cemetery, his spirit remains in a liminal space—not in the living world, but not passing on, forever tasked with helping other spirits to go where he cannot.His vigil over the grounds of his cemetery is a long and lonely one, unable to interact with anyone who still remains in the land of the living.Until he meets Dean Winchester.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Comments: 1033
Kudos: 1305
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	1. 145-4-23

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fic I've had in my WIPs folder for over a year now, and I think I'm finally ready to starting working on and posting it again. I know this has the MCD tag on it and that's scary, but I'll look after y'all, I promise. There will be a happy ending.
> 
> There are quite a few myths and legends about [grims](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Church_grim). The one I am choosing to use for this fic is the superstition that the first person/creature to be buried on hallowed church ground does not pass on, and instead remains to aid other spirits buried in the graveyard in doing so, and to protect the graveyard. This fic is based on a prompt that I chanced across on tumblr a long time ago, and I would link it if I could, but the inspiration for this fic came from that.
> 
> I was going to try and keep a regular update schedule for this, but I'm a chaotic human, and there's no way I can possibly manage that, so. It'll get finished! Just... erratically :P Thank you to cap and Jen for your title help <3
> 
> I hope you guys like this!
> 
> CW: mentioned/implied death of a child, see author's notes at the bottom of the chapter for more info.

**145-4-23**

They don’t bury him for a week.

When they load his body onto the wagon to begin the journey back to his hometown, the horses know. They roll their eyes and stamp their feet in place, anxious. The smell of death hangs on the air.

Castiel Novak follows the coffin holding his body with a heavy heart.

He knows he should regret his choices. Signing his heart, mind and body over to the Union, donning the blue uniform, and taking a musket in his hands. Marching south with his fellow soldiers to fight the Confederacy.

Now, with his uniform torn and bloodstained, his heart still, his body cold, he _knows_ he should have regrets.

But he doesn’t.

He joined the Union army to make a difference in this world, a difference to his country. To fight for what he believes in. And while he may not have lived to see the consequences of his choice or the choices of thousands of other upstanding men across the country, Castiel Novak died for what he believed in. He had died for a cause. And he had made a _difference_.

It doesn’t matter that none of the other soldiers truly mourn his loss. Everyone knows someone who had died in that battle, and there had been many others like Castiel—marooned, adrift from their bodies and desperately trying to gain the attention of those dirt-streaked, grim-faced soldiers who had survived.

No one mourns Castiel, because there are so many others to mourn.

But that doesn’t matter to Castiel, as long as he has made some difference in this war, no matter how small. The one regret he has is that he didn’t get the chance to do _more_.

He’d never even fought before, never faced the dark end of a musket and known what it was to feel true, crippling fear, and overcome that fear for the sake of a greater purpose. If only he’d gotten to make just a little more impact.

Instead, Castiel’s life had been cut short, red blossoming over the blue he’d been so proud of, the morning dew of the grass soaking into the knees of his trousers as he fell.

He hadn’t understood, for a second.

It had hurt so badly, and he hadn’t understood _why_ , only that it hurt, it _hurt_ , and then he couldn’t feel anything.

And then.

And then he was standing, staring down at his own body, at the crumpled coat and the unseeing blue eyes.

And he’d understood.

It’s a strange thing, to watch your own body be carried, cleaned, placed into a coffin. He’s so _pale_ , his eyes closed, and Castiel wishes that he didn’t have to see himself like this. It’s hard to shake the feeling that he’s failed in his duty, his cause, even though there was nothing he could have done.

 _As long as I have made a difference in this world_ , he tells himself as they load his coffin onto the wagon bound for Kansas, _my death is not for naught_.

The more he repeats that in his head, the more he hopes he will believe it. He did all he could. He fought valiantly for a noble cause. His death may not have been heroic, or hugely significant, but as long as he had an impact, that doesn’t matter.

Now, Castiel is left here, travelling beside his own dead body back to Kansas and wondering what it is that will come next.

He’s not sure what happened to the other spirits he’d seen, each in various stages of shock or grief and mostly ignoring each other in favour of processing their own death. Castiel himself can’t move very far from his body before he feels a tethering impulse pulling him back, and he imagines that the other spirits had been the same. When Castiel’s body had departed for his hometown, he had had no choice but to go with it. The fate of the other spirits will forever be a mystery, and now he’s left on his own to face whatever is coming next.

The journey takes a few days, and that leaves him with an abundance of time to think. It’s only him, the horses and the wagon driver, after all. They didn’t even send anyone with his body to announce his death—not that there’s really anyone to announce it to, apart from his immediate family.

Castiel would talk to the wagon driver if he could, but it doesn’t seem like anyone who is still alive can see him. He’s tried waving in front of people’s faces, or yelling at them, or trying to touch them, but he either phases through their body or is completely ignored. So the wagon driver isn’t an option.

The horses are a little more sensitive—while they’ve grown used to carrying Castiel’s body, they still grow a little uneasy when he draws near, though they never directly react to any of his actions. He’s found that he’s able to calm them if he really focuses on it, but in the end it doesn’t do him much good.

So, for most of the trip, he sits in the wagon, beside his own coffin, and tries not to think about what will become of him now. That proves to be rather difficult, since the only way for Castiel to pass the time is to think, and it’s a relief when they finally roll down the main road of his hometown.

No one pays the wagon very much attention until it rolls to a stop in front of the Novak house.

**145-4-16**

Castiel Novak is Lawrence’s first casualty of the Civil War. The town grieves, none more than the Novak family, but secretly, the townspeople are simply relieved that it was not one of their own kin, or someone equally as loved by the town as a whole.

Still, they gather to bury Castiel as a town, and Castiel follows them, and tries to ignore the whispers said behind his family’s back, the thanks said to God that the town had not lost someone more beloved.

They bury him on the land above the river, by the new church. The Lawrence Memorial Cemetery—except it’s only Castiel, Castiel’s body in its coffin, being slowly lowered into the ground.

He can’t quite believe it’s happening, even as he watches his family toss dirt on his grave, and the rest of the town slowly disperse, their interest dissipating.

Castiel watches his coffin disappear beneath the earth, spadeful by spadeful until it’s completely covered, and again, he wonders what will happen next. It’s not long before his family departs, and Castiel is left alone, still standing by his own grave, waiting.

He waits for what must be an hour, and then another, and another, until night is falling and he has not moved. Is he doing something wrong? Is there a heaven, or a hell? Has his life on Earth made him unworthy of _any_ afterlife at all?

During the night, he finds that he can wander further from his grave, exploring the area around himself to pass the time and hoping that perhaps he’ll stumble upon something that will give him a clue as to what he’s doing wrong. Why hasn’t he passed on yet? Is this what happens to every spirit, everyone who dies?

When the sun begins to rise the next morning, Castiel has walked as far as he possibly can in every direction, to the very edges of the newly marked out cemetery, and now he sits by his headstone.

All it reads is:

_Here lies Castiel Novak_

_9/18/1835 – 5/18/1862_

Castiel curls up against it, his back to the stone.

As the sun rises, golden over the treetops, he finally lets himself cry.

**145-2-29**

Castiel is the only one in the cemetery (if it can even be called that, with only one inhabitant) for a long time.

Until he’s not.

It’s late one afternoon when a procession climbs the hill to the cemetery, and the sound of weeping draws Castiel’s attention from the colony of ants he’s been observing.

The coffin they’re carrying is so small.

The family sets it down not far from Castiel’s grave, now covered over in grass. There’s been a hole dug next to it—it must have happened while he was away, or distracted—and he watches as they prepare to lower the small coffin into the ground. None of them can see him, of that much he’s certain by now, so he stays where he is.

It hurts to know that such a young person has had what should have been a long life cut cruelly short, but part of the scenario doesn’t register with him until he sees a small figure peering out at him from behind the group with wide eyes.

The child’s spirit. Of course.

When Castiel lifts his hand in a little wave from where he’s sitting, the child peeks out a little further, and he can see them more clearly. It’s a little boy, no more than three or four years old, his face tear-streaked and his body possessing the same slightly translucent quality as Castiel’s own.

“Hello,” Castiel says, giving the child a small smile. “My name is Castiel. What is yours?”

Slowly, the boy steps away from his grieving family, blinking watery eyes up at Castiel. The closer he comes, the clearer his small, hiccupping sobs can be heard. “I… I’m Johnnie,” he says between sobs, his voice small. “Why won’t my mama h-hug me?”

Castiel’s heart breaks.

He stands and makes his way over to the boy, then kneels down on the ground before him. Johnnie wipes at his running nose and hugs his arms around himself; when Castiel reaches gently for him, the boy lets him, and Castiel folds him into his arms. He’s had experience with this, tending to his younger siblings, and it helps that as soon as Castiel touches him, Johnnie seems to calm, his sobs becoming little hitching breaths as he relaxes into Castiel’s embrace.

“Your mother can’t hug you right now,” he murmurs against the boy’s hair, one hand stroking soothingly along his back, “but I know she loves you very much. She would want you to be brave right now. Can you be brave for me?”

It takes a few long moments, but eventually Johnnie nods against Castiel’s chest, his hair ruffling against the fabric of Castiel’s uniform coat. “I can be brave,” he whispers, and Castiel smiles.

Before he can reply, though, Johnnie’s form starts to become even more transparent, until Castiel can see the grass through him. His arms are no longer embracing the boy, but passing through him and then Castiel blinks, and he’s gone.

Just like that.

Castiel sits back on his heels. _What just happened?_

He’d been so sure that Johnnie would be the same as him, that he’d be stuck here. Is that not the norm? _Is_ there an afterlife, a place to pass over to?

Why hasn’t he gone there? Why is he still stuck here, where no one can see him or touch him save for other spirits?

Castiel presses the heels of his hands against his eyes for a second, then takes a long breath—something that has long since become a habit rather than a necessity. Whatever is going on with him, and with his spirit, he’s here now. He’s not sure _why_ , but there’s no point agonizing over his situation if he can’t do anything about it. Surely one day his time will come, and he’ll find his way to the other side like Johnnie had. Until then, he will just have to wait.

He straightens up, his gaze falling on the grieving family still present by the freshly-dug grave. This is Castiel’s cemetery, small as it may be. It is his to watch over and to protect, for as long as he is here.

This will be his purpose.

**30-2-17**

For as long as anyone can remember, there have been stories about the Lawrence Memorial Cemetery.

Throughout the years, many people have reported strange happenings. Lost items turning up by the front gates, nearly-dead flowers looking alive and revitalized the next day, the cracks in the headstones of loved ones repairing themselves and disappearing.

The Lawrence Memorial Cemetery feels alive, many people say. Those who believe are sure that there’s a spirit there, but that it’s a benevolent, kind one. One that protects and watches over the dead, and over those who grieve them. One who wishes no harm to anyone who crosses the borders of its domain.

There is a spirit in the cemetery, and that spirit is a grim.

The first to be buried, tied to the cemetery and never to leave, it is the grim’s purpose to watch over the graveyard and to guide the spirits who rest there to the other side.

Castiel Novak doesn’t know that, of course—doesn’t know that he’s a grim. He merely wishes to comfort people, and he tells himself that he has long since made peace with the fact that he never passes over like all those he has helped on their journey.

But regardless, even though he tells himself he’s okay, that he’s resigned to an afterlife of solitude…

The grim of Lawrence Memorial Cemetery is lonely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CW: Castiel meets the spirit of a little boy who has died, and comforts him, ultimately aiding him in crossing over.


	2. 23-10-25

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time to meet Dean! It's been so weird, reading the stuff I wrote over a year ago. It's _just_ different enough to my current style to be strange for me :P
> 
> Thank you to [cap](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) for betaing!
> 
> Enjoy <3

**23-10-25**

“Well, aren’t you handsome?”

The elderly lady opposite him grins and waggles her eyebrows playfully, and Castiel can’t suppress his smile. The elderly spirits are his favourite, he has to admit. They know that they’ve lived a good, long life, and many of them are content and at peace with passing over. There are always tears from the family members, though they can’t see Castiel so he’s long since learned to pay them less attention, but helping the spirits themselves pass over is certainly a less stressful experience.

Being faced with the spirit of a child has never gotten any easier. But this—this he can do.

“Thank you kindly, ma’am,” he says with a smile and a slightly shy glance down at his boots. After so many decades of near-solitude, interacting only with other spirits, it’s safe to say that his ‘people skills’ may be a little ‘rusty.’ Still, none of the spirits seem to mind, most of them too focused on the life they’ve left behind or the world waiting for them beyond the veil, whatever that may be.

Castiel watches as the old woman takes one last look at her family, then turns back towards him. “Are you ready to go?” he asks softly, and she beams at him, her eyes crinkled.

“I’ve been ready for a while now, young man. Whisk me away.”

He extends his hand out into the space between them. While they’re both somewhat translucent, the lady’s palm in his hand feels solid and real and warm, and Castiel fights the urge to hold onto the physical contact for longer than he should. He’s so starved for it.

But this is his job—he knows that. That much has been made obvious to him over the years, as so many spirits have come and gone, helped over to the other side by Castiel, who has remained tethered to the cemetery despite his every effort to leave.

And that’s why he forces himself to loosen his grip, holding the old woman’s hand loosely and watching as she slowly fades away, her serene eyes the last thing to disappear completely.

Castiel’s smile fades, and turns sad.

His hand falls back to his side.

This is how it has always been, all these years. Sometimes the spirits need a little more convincing to move on, and he’ll get an opportunity to talk to them—perhaps touch them or even hug them—but they all move on eventually. Spirits like the elderly lady don’t need much convincing at all, and it would be cruel of him to keep them here longer than they needed to stay, simply because of his own selfish wants.

Still. Castiel would like, just for a while, to sit down and talk to someone without the conversation revolving around death or the afterlife. Just for an hour.

There’s so much that he’s missed since he died, he knows that much. Over the years, he’s watched the people who visit the cemetery change. They don’t wear the same trousers or coats or shirts that they did when Castiel was alive—indeed, he’s entranced by the variety of the clothing that they wear, in all different styles and colours and fits.

He’d adopted some of it himself, once he started to notice spirits giving him odd looks for his army-regulation uniform, the blue coat and the shiny black boots. Instead, he’s exchanged it for something simpler, similar to what he’s seen other people in the cemetery wear when they aren’t dressed all in black, and it’s an outfit that he’s quite fond of. He knows that he’ll have to exchange his blue polo shirt and bell-bottomed ‘jeans’ once the style moves on again, but for now, he likes them.

Anyway, it’s easy to change around his outfit when he has no true corporeal form. All it takes is a thought. Castiel has spent a large amount of time amusing himself by trying out new clothes, sampling from the wardrobes of people who walk through the cemetery gates, but in the end, this is what he decided to settle on.

There’s only so long he can amuse himself with clothes before it begins to grow tedious, after all. He’ll have to wait until the accepted style begins to change again.

The family standing before the elderly woman’s grave begin to converse among themselves, the sound of weeping still filling the air, and Castiel decides to take his leave. There’s nothing more here for him anyway, so he disappears with a thought.

Castiel has many secret spots and hiding places throughout the cemetery. It’s hard not to, when he’s watched it be built and developed and expanded around him. Being invisible to all those except spirits, it’s not like he needs to actually _hide_ from anyone, but it’s still nice to have places where he feels like he can get away and be safe.

His favourite spot of all is the tallest pine tree, right in the middle of the cemetery, and that is where he goes now.

From here, he can look out over the cemetery and further, to the roads and the houses and the buildings that have sprung up where once there was only forest and vegetation. From here, he has seen the world grow, and even though he hasn’t been a part of it and it’s moved on without him, he still _feels_ a little more like he belongs.

The bark of the tree’s trunk is rough against Castiel’s cheek where he leans against it, but he doesn’t care, and barely even notices—it's not like it can hurt him, after all. Even if he fell all the way down to the ground from here, he would still stand up without a scratch or any trace of pain. No doubt many people would kill for that, but for Castiel, it’s just another part of what his life (or lack thereof) has become.

From up here, Castiel watches the world, and he watches the world progress without him.

He loses track of time. It happens, being a spirit. There are gaps in his memory; he just… disappears sometimes, presumably to rest or recharge. It’s different up here, though.

Up here, Castiel gets lost in his thoughts, looking out over the ever-growing town of Lawrence and wondering what it’s _like_. Is it similar at all to the world he left behind, all those years ago when he went out to war and returned in a coffin? Or is it _completely_ different?

He knows that the technology has changed. The people living in this age have _cars_ —great, hulking, noisy things that, thankfully, aren’t allowed into his graveyard. He’s heard what they do to people. So many of those buried in his cemetery have lost their lives to hard metal and rubber wheels and a speed greater than any human should feasibly require, and Castiel has no time for those contraptions.

Other things, though, capture his interest more. Most of his knowledge is gleaned from eavesdropping on those who visit his cemetery. He’s uninterested in idle gossip between friends or family members, but hoards pieces of trivia like they’re made of gold.

Great wars and economic depressions, the development of air travel, _space_ travel. Apparently men have made it to the moon, which he finds hard to believe—but then again, he doesn’t know much about the moon itself beyond knowing that it _exists_ and it’s _very_ far away, so he supposes that anything is possible.

Castiel swings his legs, dangling them out in the empty air beneath his branch, and sighs. Not for the first time, he wishes he weren’t stuck in this limbo. He finds solace in the knowledge that he is helping people, bringing them comfort and peace and clarity before they pass over to the other side, but…

A person has to be a little selfish every once in a while. And it’s been so many years since he even had the _opportunity_ to do something for himself that he can barely remember what it feels like. His whole afterlife has become devoted to other people, by no intentions of his own.

It’s just something he has to accept.

And it’s nice when he gets to have a talk with the spirits. It’s the most communication he gets, when someone isn’t sure about passing over for some reason or another, and it becomes Castiel’s job to reassure them, encourage them, whatever they need. He has to seek out the good points from his existence and focus on them, instead of the bleakness of hundreds of years in servitude, tied to the same place.

The distant rumble of a car brings him out of his thoughts.

The day is nearing towards dusk now, sunset filtering through the low-floating clouds and brushing russet strokes over Castiel’s cemetery. From his perch high in the tree, he watches the car wind its way along the solitary road to the empty parking lot, sleek and square with silver chrome flashing in the sunset light. It’s followed by a hearse of the same colour, identical to the others that Castiel has seen arrive at his cemetery.

Another funeral. Another person to be buried, another spirit who will need his guidance in passing over to the next life.

He sighs quietly to himself, then blinks back down to the ground. Hopefully this will be the last one for a little while—it’s always hard on him, seeing other people able to pass on so smoothly while he remains stuck here. His purpose is a noble one, but that doesn’t mean that it doesn’t rend Castiel’s heart in two every time.

In the distance, he sees the two cars come to a stop. A man gets out of the first one, the one that is all black and silver sleekness, then opens the door to the backseat.

A little boy emerges, holding a bundle in his arms, and Castiel’s heart sinks. _A young family. This one will not be easy_.

He won’t be needed right away, so he keeps an eye on them from a distance as he makes his way amongst the graves, revitalizing flowers and clearing away weeds with a gentle touch. The coffin, meanwhile, is unloaded from the hearse, and transported across the cemetery to where an open grave waits beside the outstretched branches of a sycamore tree.

Castiel makes his way over reluctantly—he’s had enough of death for today, but it isn’t his choice. It’s not about him, and so he does what he needs to when it is needed.

There is no crying from this family. Even the baby is silent. The man stands tall and stoic by the grave, while the little boy holding the baby is off to the side, and that’s where the spirit stands.

Or, rather, kneels. She’s right next to the boy, one hand on his shoulder and the other cradling the baby’s head. The little kids won't be able to feel it, but touching is often comforting for the spirits. Castiel has long since given up on trying to touch the people who are still living. It’s not his place, and they’ve never been able to see him, anyway. The only moments of interaction that he gets are with spirits like him.

Moments like this.

He walks up to the little family quietly, not wanting to disturb the woman in her last moments with her children. Instead, he waits by the head of the grave.

It doesn’t take long for the woman to spot him. Her face is so, so sad, etched with the grief of all the years she should have gotten to spend with her children and her husband. _Please, a little more time_ , is what that look says, and Castiel inclines his head gently.

He will wait for as long as it takes. That is all he is able to do, after all. _Wait_.

So he stands there, watching as she says goodbye to her family, and does not immediately realize that the little boy is watching him with big, green eyes until he speaks.

“Who are you?”

Castiel freezes.

He has been in this cemetery for over a hundred years, has seen so many people come and go, and never, _never_ , has a single one of them been able to see him.

Until now.

He stares down at the boy with wide eyes, all his instincts telling him to blink away, but he fights the urge—he’s needed here now to help this woman pass over.

“My name is Castiel,” he says slowly. Both the boy and the woman are looking at him now—but the man is watching the little boy instead, a dark frown creasing his brow.

“Are you going to take my mom?” the little boy asks, in a voice that wobbles, but only barely. Poor child, he has grown up far too young.

Castiel crouches down beside the grave, so that he’s at the boy’s height. Those green eyes follow him, never wavering. “I am,” he tells him, his voice quiet. “But not until she’s ready, so you have time to say goodbye, okay?”

Their moment is cut through by steel-laced words. “Who are you talking to, Dean?” the man asks sharply, his gaze flitting between the boy and the vague area where Castiel is. He has no idea what’s actually there, but the boy—Dean? He is laser-focused.

“There’s a man,” he says, in that simple, matter-of-fact manner of children. “His name is Castee—Cast— _Cas_.”

 _Cas_. No one has ever given him a nickname before, and even if this one has been bestowed simply because his full name is too difficult, it still fills a warm spot inside Castiel’s chest.

“He’s going to take mommy away,” Dean continues, and his voice trembles now, but the man?

The man looks like he’s taken a blow to the chest. He looks like he can’t breathe, like his chest is collapsing in on itself, as though he can barely hold himself together. Castiel knows the feeling.

The woman sits back on her heels and looks up at her husband, a look of sorrow and regret etched across her features. “It’s going to be okay,” she whispers to her family, even though they can’t hear her, even though little Dean is only able to see Castiel—which is something he’s going to have to sit down and process soon, but now is not the time.

“You be strong,” he tells the boy, his voice gentle. “She loves you, and she’s watching over you.”

Dean nods solemnly, so grown up for such a young child, while the woman looks back towards Castiel. “Thank you,” she says quietly. “Do you mind… do you mind if I stay a little bit longer? I don’t think I’m ready to say goodbye just yet.”

“Whatever you need,” Castiel tells her gently. He straightens up and moves away again, trying to give the little family the privacy they need to grieve and say goodbye, but achingly aware of Dean’s gaze burning into the side of his head.

Finally, there’s a touch on his shoulder. Castiel looks up to see the woman standing beside him. There’s a deep sadness on her face, but the kind that looks as though she’d resigned herself to this sadness a long time ago. “I think I’m ready,” she says quietly.

Castiel glances over at the family—the man has turned away as the grave is filled in, but the little boy continues to stare at him. He still doesn’t know how _anyone_ has the ability to see him, let alone a four-year-old child, but that’s something to unpack later.

“Alright,” he tells her with a smile that feels entirely too forced, climbing to his feet.

He reaches out a hand to her, ready to help her pass over to wherever normal spirits go next. But instead of taking his hand like he’d expected—her fingers close around Castiel’s wrist.

“He can see you,” she says quietly, and there’s an urgency in her voice. “Tell me you’ll look after him. _Promise_.”

_What the—?_

Castiel doesn’t know how to react, just nods dumbly, totally taken aback. “I—okay. I will.” Not that he ever expects to see the boy again after today, as much as he would like to have someone to talk to, but agreeing is his knee-jerk response.

It seems to placate the woman, because her fingers release from around Castiel’s wrist. She looks back at her family one more time, then sets her jaw and straightens her shoulders, and takes Castiel’s hand.

Within seconds, she’s disappeared. Just like every spirit that has come before her, and every spirit that will follow.

“Is she gone?” the boy asks. Unsure of how else to reply, Castiel just nods.

“Oh.”

This little boy named Dean is so young, but already he carries his little sibling in his arms and the weight of the world on his shoulders. Castiel’s existence is hard, but… he foresees Dean’s being harder.

“She spent a long time saying goodbye to you,” he says gently, kneeling down where he stands. There’s still a few feet between them, and Castiel isn’t willing to cross that. He doesn’t want to test whether the boy can touch him as well as see him. “She loves you very much.”

He doesn’t know how to carry through the promise he’s made, seeing as he can’t leave this cemetery, but at least he can provide the boy with a little bit of hope and love and understanding that he can carry with him out of this place.

Dean nods solemnly, shifting his grip on the bundle of baby in his arms—which must be getting heavy by now, but he hasn’t said anything about it. Not to the man who is currently watching him with confusion and no small amount of hostility.

Castiel doesn’t understand why Dean can see him either, but the expression on the man’s face… Castiel hopes that it’s just the grief and the instability affecting him. There’s nothing _wrong_ with Dean.

“I have to go now,” he tells the boy quietly, because today has been a long day and he can feel that his energy has almost been depleted. “But you’re welcome to come back and visit your mother. I think she’d like that. And if you can still see me… say hello to me, too.”

It’s selfish, because he knows his offer isn’t entirely about fulfilling his promise to the woman and is instead about his own desire to have someone, anyone, to talk to. But he can’t help it.

Dean smiles up at him, the kind of smile that is totally genuine in the way only children can deliver. “Okay, Cas,” he says, then turns away, towards the man who must be his father.

Castiel can hear their conversation as the man takes the baby and leads Dean away from the new grave. “Can we come back and visit mommy and Cas? Please, daddy?”

The man casts one look back at the grave, and it’s impossible to miss the fear in his eyes. He doesn’t reply.

**22-8-14**

Castiel waits, and waits, and waits.

Dean never comes back.

He thinks about that day a lot. About the way it had played out, the way he remembers things in his head, some vividly and the others faded dully into the background. He remembers the sound of Dean’s voice, and the promise he’d made to Dean’s mother.

He remembers what it had been like to be talked to by someone he wasn’t helping to pass on. Someone _living_. Someone who could actually come back and talk to him, instead of disappearing in a few fleeting minutes, never to return.

But, then again…

Dean had never returned, either.

Castiel tries not to let it make him bitter and sad. He’s lasted this long—and really, what should he have expected?

The snow comes, and then melts away again. Summer passes, followed by another winter, then another summer. Castiel sees many people come through his cemetery in the years that follow, and helps many spirits pass on.

The years fade into each other.

Castiel’s hope wanes until, finally, he gives up altogether.

Dean will never come back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What do y'all think is going to happen when Cas finally meets Dean again? How will it all go down?


	3. 3-10-26

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo I already fucked up my posting schedule. In my defence, I did spend all of Friday locked out of my house, but I really don't think this whole deadline thing is for me XD I'll still be aiming to keep the updates weekly, and no more than two weeks apart. Writing is hard, though.
> 
> Anyway. We get to meet Dean again in this chapter! Unbeta'd, because I'm disorganised and impatient and need to get this chapter posted so I can move on to the next part of the story (which will be ??? who knows).
> 
> Enjoy!

**3-10-26**

It’s another November, the leaves have fallen from the trees, and Castiel still keeps a lonely vigil over his cemetery.

October was a quiet month, with the exception of Halloween. There are always teenagers who think that it’s funny to break into the cemetery after dark, to taunt the spirits that they half-believe reside there, or just to get blackout drunk amongst the graves. Either way, it’s grossly disrespectful, and Castiel feels no remorse about sending them on their way with a few well-timed spooky sounds or rustling bushes. They never stick around for long, once he’s suggested that the cemetery may actually be more than a little haunted. Only by him, though.

Either way, he’s glad to have put that particular holiday behind him. But now…

Now it’s November 2.

Every year, on this day, he makes a point to visit the grave of Mary Winchester. Since that fateful day that he met Dean, he’s never seen anyone visit her. It’s not that he’s not looking—he’s become attuned to the cemetery after over a hundred years spent here, and he’s _good_ at watching, especially when he’s watching for someone specific. But no one else has stopped by that grave. Only Castiel.

It breaks his heart. A husband, two children, and none of them visit her.

None of them visit _Cas_.

He’d made a promise, but there’s no way he can keep it if he never sees Dean again. There’s only so much he can do from within the confines of his cemetery, no matter how many times he’s tried to push at the boundaries of it, to see if they’ve relaxed over the years. He’s never had any luck.

And so he stays, and he keeps the graves and their visitors company.

There’s a tiny flowerbush growing beside Mary’s grave that Castiel has been slowly cultivating, and he sits next to it now, checking up on its growth. It hasn’t flowered yet, but he hopes that it will in the spring. It would be a nice tribute, considering the only flowers she ever gets are from strangers who are kind but not family.

“I’m sorry it’s been so long, Mary,” he says quietly, running his fingers along one of the plant’s fragile branches and watching it sway. “I wish I could look out for him like I promised. I don’t know why they’ve never visited you, and I—I wish I could see them again. See _him_ again. It’s been twenty years, and no one else has ever been able to see me like Dean could.”

The sun is beginning to set, casting long shadows over Mary’s grave. He’s desperate for someone to talk to, wishes he could have more than just these one-sided conversations with himself. It’s not something he’s been able to have… well, ever since he died.

“I just wish I wasn’t so alone,” he says quietly.

After that, he just sits by her grave in silence, until all the visitors have left and the sun has set, and it’s just him, alone, in the place he’s going to be tethered to for all eternity.

If he had bones, they would creak as he stands up, but as it is, Castiel just grunts quietly when he hauls himself to his feet. His body might have stayed young, but he sure as hell _feels_ old. Another year, another anniversary been and gone. Another no-show.

He’s preparing for a quiet, undisturbed night, when something prickles at the edges of his awareness, snapping his attention away from the owl that has been making itself at home in one of his trees.

There’s someone at the edge of his cemetery.

It’s late enough at night that the gates should be locked, the caretaker (the _living_ caretaker, anyway) gone home for the night. Anyone who’s around at this time definitely should not be, and it puts Castiel on edge.

Suddenly wary, he blinks his way over to his pine tree, closes his eyes, and _listens_.

Whoever’s there, he can’t pinpoint them quite like he’s always been able to. Usually, he can tell exactly where people are within the grounds of his cemetery, but with this person… it’s like the signal is muffled. He knows they’re there, but he can’t quite get a handle on _where_.

“Who are you?” he calls into the darkness, even though he’s knows that whoever’s there can’t hear him. It makes him feel just a little better. “What do you want?”

Silence—and then the quiet rustling of footsteps.

Castiel has gone to war, and stared down a line of muskets. One random person in his cemetery shouldn’t be that big of a deal, but the fact that he can’t tell where they are… He doesn’t like it. Not one bit.

Figuring that he should be at least somewhat proactive instead of just waiting by the tree until whoever’s here comes to him, Castiel starts to blink around the grounds. There’s no one by the church, or the back fence, or the little gazebo near the center where Castiel has been slowly growing flowers. But when he blinks to the edge of his cemetery, beside the parking lot—

His eyes fall upon a sleek, black car that is achingly familiar.

And then there’s a _bang_ , and Castiel feels as though he’s being torn apart.

**3-10-26..?**

When Castiel comes to (if there is such a thing for a spirit, that is), he has no idea how much time has passed, and he _hurts_ like he’s never hurt before. Not in this plane of existence, anyway.

He’s back by the pine tree, which is definitely not where he’d been before. It’s a few seconds before his memory comes back, his mind clouded and disoriented, but then the image of that car comes back in vivid detail.

He’s only ever seen one car like that, and it was twenty years ago. Which means that the person here is either Mary’s husband, or…

 _Dean_.

But whoever it is, he has to find them, and _quickly_. Whatever they’d done to him, hurting and disabling him even for a short period of time, it had been entirely an act of malice, and that doesn’t bode well for his cemetery.

Castiel blinks across the cemetery faster than he ever has before, ignoring the way that it’s draining his power at a rapid rate alongside whatever had previously put him out of action. He scans every inch of his grounds, frantic and panicking—

And then he reaches the church.

He doesn’t come here very often. He was never very religious, and the fact that his body is buried just beside it doesn’t encourage him to visit, so he mostly stays away. It’s not exactly a happy place for him.

So of course it’s here, by the church, that he finds the man.

He’s standing over Castiel’s grave, digging a shovel into the soil with sharp determination. “Hey!” Castiel shouts, even though it’s pointless, even though there’s no way the man can hear him.

Except he does.

His back straightens, the cut of the shovel into frost-chilled earth falters, and he turns to look over his shoulder, straight at Castiel.

 _Those eyes_.

Green, like lush grass after the spring rains. The eyes he’s never forgotten.

“ _Dean_ ,” he chokes out—and then looks past him, to where his gravestone sits, weathered and overgrown and unloved. “What—what are you doing?”

Dean’s eyes are hard and cold, with none of the wide-eyed wonder and pure unfettered emotion that Castiel had remembered seeing in them all those years ago. He digs his shovel into the ground again, hard enough that it stays standing when he lets go of the handle, and reaches for the duffel bag that sits beside Castiel’s grave.

It’s been years since he’s seen one, but Castiel will never forget the sight of a gun.

This one looks different—it’s much shorter, and stocky where a musket had been slender—but it’s easily recognizable for what it is all the same.

Castiel blinks out of the way just as Dean pulls the trigger, and watches from off to the side as tiny pellets and salt crystals explode into the air where he had been. “You son of a bitch,” Dean growls, and it hurts like a physical wound to Castiel’s heart to hear the pure hostility in his voice. He knows that it would have changed, gotten deeper as Dean had gotten older, but he’d never imagined that he’d sound quite like _this_ if they were ever reunited.

“I don’t understand,” he pleads, and Dean’s eyes snap to where he’s standing, the barrel of the gun following only half a second later.

“I don’t know what there is to understand,” Dean grunts, and pulls the trigger once more. Castiel only just manages to blink out of the way. “I’m here to put you to rest so that you can’t hurt any more people.”

_What?_

“What on earth are you talking about?” The barrel follows him again, but this time Dean waits, his eyes narrowed. He’s grown up beautifully, all freckles and youthful, boyish looks, but Castiel only gets a second to admire him before he has to move out of the way of the gun once more. “I’ve never hurt anyone in my life, Dean.”

 _Blink_. _Bang_.

“Bullshit.”

Dean points the gun at him once more, but he seems to have figured out that Castiel is too fast for him to hit without also having the element of surprise. For a long moment, the two of them stand there, Castiel with his hands splayed out pleadingly as Dean stands atop his bones.

The silence stretches out between them, thin like finely-spun thread and thickly taut with tension. Castiel is the one who breaks it.

“What do you think I did?” he asks quietly. “I met you, Dean, when you were younger. We talked. Your mother—“

Dean bares his teeth and flexes his fingers around the gun. “Don’t you _dare_ talk about my mom,” he snaps, cutting Castiel off. “You have no fucking right. All the times I could have visited her, if not for…”

He voice trails off, wobbling. For a second, he’s that scared little boy again, the one that Castiel remembers from so long ago—

And then the hard mask falls back over his face. “You’re a monster.”

Castiel flinches back, as if Dean had shot him again.

Monster. Dean thinks he’s a _monster_.

Somehow, those words hurt more than bullets. Of all the scenarios he’s played out in his head of Dean’s return, he’d never thought it would be like this. All the hope he’d ever held for a friendship with someone who can actually _see_ him… drains away.

“I did not hurt your mother,” he whispers, and his words sound harsh and raw in the silence, the dark of the chill November night. When he speaks again, his voice is louder, and it cracks on some of the syllables. “Whatever you think I did, I did not do it. But whatever you’re here to do, I cannot stop you.” Castiel’s fingers curl into fists that shake by his sides. “I wish things had been different, I truly do. I did not hurt your mother, but I did fail her. So goodbye, Dean.”

And he turns and walks away.

Castiel doesn’t look back, but he remains hyperaware of Dean—where he is, what he’s doing, the fact that he’s still holding the gun. There’s a long moment where Dean doesn’t move, doesn’t put the gun down but doesn’t take another shot, or pick up the shovel instead. No, he just stands there, and watches Castiel walk away through the trees.

Seven seconds.

Eight second.

Nine seconds…

“Wait, Ca—Cas, wait!”

Castiel stops. He does not turn around, but he hears the sound of the gun being placed down, and Dean’s heavy boots crunching through the grass.

Even after all these years, Dean still remembers his name.

Castiel slowly turns to face him—this man who is so hardened and unforgiving and so different to the little boy he remembers from so long ago.

“What?” he asks quietly. Tiredly. This is not how he’d thought his reunion with Dean would ever go.

Dean stands in front of him, taller, filled out, but… the cold mask has fallen away, and in its place is the youth and the naivety that Castiel remembers. He flexes his fingers, shifts his feet while he seems to find the words for what he wants to say, and Castiel feels his anger and sadness melt away just a little.

“I don’t really remember the day we met,” is how Dean begins, and his voice is so quiet that Castiel takes an involuntary half-step closer, just to hear him better. “But my dad said I was… talking to someone. Someone he couldn’t see, someone who’d taken mom away. I remember talking to you a little bit, but after, dad…”

Dean takes a deep breath, then exhales it shakily. “He said you were bad. That we couldn’t go back there, not until you were gone.”

Castiel holds Dean’s gaze while he tries to process this—the one person he’s ever been able to talk to thinking that he’s bad, that he’s _evil_ , and only returning to the cemetery with a plan to destroy him. Because that’s what Dean had been here to do, he’s sure of it now. The shovel, the duffel bag resting beside Castiel’s grave…

“I think you need to leave,” he hears himself say, and it tears him apart, because he doesn’t want Dean to go. He doesn’t want to be alone again.

But he also can’t talk to Dean right now, not with how much this new revelation hurts.

From the way Dean seems to crumple, even more upset and confused than he had been before, he’s hurting as well. “Cas, I’m—“

“Not now. _Please_.” Castiel cuts him off with a raised hand, then curls his fingers into a fist and lets it drop. “You can come back tomorrow if you’d like, when we’ve both had some time to think, but this… I can’t do this right now.”

Castiel’s chest feels tighter and tighter as the tense silence stretches out between them, Dean’s hurt gaze never leaving his. One of them has to be the one to break, though.

Dean is the first one to look away.

“Okay,” he says quietly. “I—I’m sorry, Cas. Really. I’ll be back tomorrow, I promise.”

And that’s about all that Castiel can handle, for tonight. He gives Dean a shaky nod, takes one last look at the boy who has become a man, the person he’s dreamed of seeing for all these years but never though it would be like this…

And blinks away.

From the top of his tree, he watches Dean toss his equipment back into his car. He lingers in the parking lot for a minute or two before finally driving away, red taillights disappearing down the winding cemetery road and into the darkness.

It’s only much, much later, once he’s alone in his cemetery again, that Castiel realizes that Dean, and whatever he’d had planned with his grave, could have been his ticket to finally getting out of here.

His lonely night has never felt longer.

**3-10-25**

If he’s honest, Castiel doesn’t fully expect Dean to return the next day. He watches the sunrise from his tree, arms wrapped around his knees as he replays every second of his encounters with Dean over and over in his head.

When the gates open, people begin to trickle into the cemetery, come to pay their respects. Hopefully there won’t be any funerals today—Castiel is already burnt out after all this, and the idea of having to be strong for someone who’s scared, upset, and in need of guidance…

Even just _thinking_ about it feels exhausting.

So he stays in his tree, and he watches over his cemetery and over the road that leads to it, fully expecting not to ever see Dean’s shiny black car ever again.

He’s not sure how he feels about being wrong.

Dean arrives just after midday. He parks his car away from the others, and Castiel watches it for a good few minutes as he waits for him to get out, but he just… sits.

It’s understandable—if Castiel had a car to sit in and put off this meeting, he would too. As it is, he’s still up here in his tree, but it’s different. He can blink down there in a second, if he wanted to. Which he doesn’t.

Not just yet.

Instead, he watches from his vantage point as Dean eventually climbs out of his car. He keeps his hands in his pockets, and walks like he’s not sure he should be there, constantly looking around him. It takes Castiel a few seconds to realize Dean is looking for _him_.

Dean makes his way through the gates of the cemetery and wanders down the path in the direction of Castiel’s grave. Castiel blinks down to the ground and follows him at a distance—for now, it’s all he can do to just _look_ at Dean, now that he has the opportunity.

He’s changed so much in the years that he’s been away. Physically, of course, although there’s still a youthful boyishness in his features, but also in his personality. The way he holds himself.

Castiel hopes against hope that there’s still a little bit of that little boy left in him. And considering that Dean hadn’t shot him last night, hadn’t done whatever he’d planned to do while he’d had the chance…

It might be more likely than he’d thought.

He watches Dean walk through the cemetery, always staying more than a few paces behind—and it’s _weird_ , having to worry about hiding from someone who can see him. It’s not something he’s had to think about for over a hundred years.

And then Dean comes to a stop in front of his grave.

Castiel takes a few steps closer, carefully, even though his footsteps aren’t even capable of making a sound. Dean is just staring down at the grave, and the headstone, and the small patch of earth hat had been overturned by his digging last night but has since been flattened smooth.

“You came back,” Castiel says quietly, after a minute or two. Dean, to his credit, doesn’t even flinch.

“Of course.” The words come without hesitation, but he doesn’t turn to face Castiel. Just keeps looking down.

“There’s not very much on your headstone,” he says after a few more long moments, the silence stretching out between them and thick with all the things that are still unsaid.

Castiel feels a lump rise in his throat.

“I suppose my family didn’t think there was very much to say.”

He steps forward, so that he’s standing next to Dean, side by side looking down at the old grave. Except Castiel is looking less at the grave and more over at Dean, the corners of his mouth pulling down.

“How did it… how did it happen?”

He should’ve expected this question. _Of course_ he should’ve.

Castiel takes a deep breath. “I was fighting in the war,” he says, looking down at his feet. “The Civil War, I think people call it these days. I was all ready to go and fight for the things I believed in, but in the first battle I saw…” He trails off. Clears his throat. “I don’t think I ever even pulled the trigger before I died.”

Beside him, Dean sucks in a sympathetic breath. It’s weird to talk about it—and now that he thinks about it, he’s not sure he’s ever actually had this conversation with anyone before. Most spirits are, understandably, very self-focused, and it’s just… never come up.

“They brought me back home and buried me here,” he finishes. “I was the first person in this cemetery. My family was quite large, as well, so… I don’t know that anyone really missed me after I died.”

Dean doesn’t say anything. He’s quiet for the longest time, and when Castiel looks over, Dean is looking at him with a deep sadness in his eyes.

When he finally speaks, all he says is, “I’m sorry.” His voice resonates with the sincerity of it, so strongly that Castiel can _feel_ it.

“It’s okay,” he says, giving a small shrug of his shoulders. “I’ve had a long time to get used to it. It’s the reason I don’t really come here very often, though. I don’t… I don’t like looking at it.”

Dean looks back down at his grave, and scuffs his foot against the ground. “Yeah,” he agrees. “I get that.”

Another minute passes between them. The quiet is almost as nice as the talking—it’s a different quiet to the one he’s used to. The absence of words by choice, and the comfort of a shared silence, rather than the feeling of being isolated from the world.

“So you’ve been here all this time?” Dean asks after a little while, after they’ve watched a sparrow come down and browse through the overturned soil on Castiel’s grave before flying away again. “You’ve never crossed over?”

That pulls a slightly bitter laugh from Castiel’s chest. He loves that he gets to help people on to the next life, he really does, but…

“No,” he says, with a little shake of his head. “I’ve never crossed over. I have no idea what’s on the other side. I wish I knew, but… I’ve always just been stuck here.”

Dean frowns, clearly deep in thought. “I’ve never heard of that happening before,” he mutters quietly.

That piques Castiel’s attention. “What do you mean?” he asks, but Dean just shakes his head.

“Doesn’t matter. Not right now, anyway.”

And isn’t that just a cryptic answer, but Castiel knows enough of Dean by now to know that he won’t be getting any more information until Dean is ready to divulge it. Besides, he’s too tired to press for more right now.

Instead, he says, “Anyway, I’m used to it. The helping people, and the constantly being here. Sometimes I have to recharge when it gets too much, though—I’ll admit, I haven’t been feeling my best after you shot me last night with whatever that was.”

Dean looks guiltily down at his feet. “Rock salt,” he says quietly. “It’s designed to weaken… well, spirits. Like you. I—I’m sorry, Cas, I didn’t know…”

“It’s okay, Dean.” Castiel is quick to cut him off. They’ve been through this already, and hearing Dean apologize again like there’s such a weight in his heart is only making him feel more exhausted. “You’re right, you didn’t know. You don’t have to keeping saying you’re sorry. I—“

He sways on his feet, feeling his form flicker. Seemingly out of instinct, Dean reaches out to touch him on the elbow. To steady him.

A tiny part of Castiel had hoped against hope that Dean would be able to touch him—

But his hand goes right through Castiel’s form.

It’s too much. “I have to go,” Castiel whispers, and the last thing he sees before he disappears is the downturn of Dean’s lips, and a deep, heartbreaking sadness in those stunningly green eyes.


	4. 3-10-24

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is a short chapter, but an important chapter. thank you, as always, to [cap](http://captainhaterade.tumblr.com) for beta-reading.
> 
> enjoy <3
> 
> This chapter now has beautiful [art](https://lizleeships.tumblr.com/post/612488330242850816/im-just-beyond-delighted-to-post-the-image-for-my) by the wonderful [lizlee](http://lizleeships.tumblr.com)!

**3-10-24**

Castiel never knows how long he’s gone. Not that he actually knows _where_ he goes, either—just that when he returns, time has passed, and he never has any idea of how much.

This time, when he blinks back into existence in the living world (for most people, anyway), the sun is well on its way to setting.

He feels a lot better than he had before taking his ghost-nap, or whatever it is that happens. He’s recharged and ready to deal with whatever may have happened in his absence—or may yet happen.

From what Castiel can feel, his cemetery is reasonably quiet. There aren’t many people around, and he closes his eyes to do a quick inventory: two by the gazebo, one near the north fence, a group just pulling out of the parking lot.

And then there’s a single person, up by the church.

Castiel could hazard a guess at who that might be. It’s interesting that Dean is still around, though, considering how he’d acted… last night? Two nights ago? Castiel isn’t entirely sure.

But he’s still here. And that must mean he cares—about Mary, about his behaviour, his attitude. About _Cas_.

There’s no way of telling _exactly_ which reason, or mix of reasons, is keeping him here, but Castiel hopes—more than a little bit—that the last reason has some weight in Dean’s mind. Not that it does him any good to think about that, but he’s only human. Well, _mostly_.

Lo and behold, he finds Dean by his grave once again. This time, though, the scene is very different.

Dean is on his knees beside Castiel’s grave. He’s wearing an old pair of jeans and a faded t-shirt that has clearly seen better days, and there’s dirt caked under his nails. It’s not Dean that catches his attention, though—well, not as much.

No, it’s his grave.

Where before it had been neglected and overgrown, weeds clawing at the faded headstone and the edges of his grave lost to the grass, now it looks completely different. The weeds have been pulled out, the wild-growing grass trimmed, the headstone scrubbed at until the hundred years’ worth of grime and dirt have disappeared. There’s a neat line of stones around the edge of the grave, where the wooden border has long since rotted away, and planted at the very foot of the grave…

There is an asphodel plant.

“Dean,” he breathes, as he stares down at his own grave. It’s just as beautiful and well-kept, if not more, as it was back when he had first inhabited the cemetery. “Did you… did you do all of this for me?”

Dean startles, as though he hadn’t realized that Castiel was there. He looks back over his shoulder at Castiel, eyes wide and dirt-stained fingers flexing nervously against his thighs. “Yeah,” he says quietly, then clears his throat. “I, uh. I wanted to do something to show you that I was sorry. I’m sorry that I believed my dad when he said you were malevolent, and I’m sorry that I hurt you.” Castiel’s eyes follow the movement of Dean’s fingers as he rubs the back of his neck. “I know it probably doesn’t make up for it, but… I wanted to try.”

Castiel has never been fond of the memories attached to his grave, but now… now that Dean has remade it, trimmed it back and made it beautiful and loved once more, just like all the others in this cemetery that Castiel and the other humans tend to…

Now it feels different.

“Thank you,” he says sincerely. He takes a step forward, then crouches down beside Dean, reaching out to touch the asphodel flower. It sways gently beneath his touch. “It’s beautiful. No one has ever cared for my grave like this, so I—it’s nice.”

Dean gives him a small, quick smile. There’s still a guarded quality to him—he feels hardened, the kind that comes naturally with age, but also the kind that is born of a life full of doubt and hardships. Hopefully Castiel will be able to see past those walls, if Dean will let him.

They sit for a while, side by side next to Castiel’s grave. It’s reasonably warm, for a November afternoon, and Castiel is perfectly content to just sit and watch the breeze rustle the leaves of the trees, or the ants make their way across the earth in organized lines. He’s used to finding quiet ways to pass the time, after all.

But Dean? Not so much.

It’s only a matter of minutes before he speaks again.

“I looked into it, you know,” he says. When Castiel glances over, he’s looking up at the trees, elbows resting on his knees and fingertips hooked loosely together.

He doesn’t say anything else, not immediately, and so Castiel prompts him gently. “Looked into what?”

“Into you.”

Castiel feels his eyebrows raise in surprise. He’s just a single inconsequential soldier, a spirit who got stuck for some unknown and indecipherable reason. Surely there’s nothing to research. “Me? What about me?”

Dean inhales, then sighs it out in a single breath. “Who you were. If there was any reason that you stayed here instead of moving on, even though you’re not malevolent.”

_And?_

He does his best not to prompt. Not to push. If Dean wants to share, he can do so in his own time, no matter how insatiably curious Castiel is feeling.

It pays off. Dean looks over at him, and when their eyes meet, he must be able to see just how much Castiel is trying to restrain himself, because the corners of his lips quirk up into a tiny smile. “Man, you feel like you’re about to vibrate right out of existence. You can chill out, I’m not gonna keep anything from you, okay? Well… not that there was much to find, anyway.”

His expression turns a little bit sad, and Castiel can feel his do the same. He’d half-hoped that there’d be a story about him out there somewhere, that people remembered him for doing something good instead of just being a forgotten name on an old piece of stone.

What a foolish hope.

But Dean isn’t quite finished. “I might not have found much about you, apart from your basic army records,” he says, looking away again and picking idly at a stray thread along the seam of his jeans. “But I did find some interesting stuff about what you… might be.”

“What I might be?” Castiel can’t help but echo. His gaze doesn’t waver from Dean’s face, intense in his sudden curiosity. “What do you mean, what I might be?”

“Well…” Dean rubs a hand over his jaw, thinking, then lets it fall back against his leg. “There are spirits, right? When you die, you become one, and all that jazz. Most people just cross over to wherever spirits go, but some hang around. Most of the ones I’ve encountered are malevolent—they’re angry about something, or have unfinished business here, and so they’ve stayed. Those are the ones that turn violent, and hurt people.”

Castiel takes a few seconds to process Dean’s words. “But I’m not angry,” he says quietly. He’d _wanted_ to pass on, to leave this world behind and find out what comes next. But that had never been an option.

“I know,” Dean tells him. He finally looks over at Castiel, his gaze sympathetic and lips downturned. “I know you’re not angry. I realized that, after I met you properly. So I did a little bit of digging, and I found…”

He brushes his hands off on his jeans, then reaches for his duffel bag and pulls out a book. It looks _old_ , worn and well-used, and Castiel can’t help but lean closer as Dean flicks through the pages.

“This.” The book falls open on a specific page. When Dean turns back to Castiel, they seem to realize just how close they are at the same time—Dean jerks back in surprise, and Castiel quickly shuffles back to where he’d been sitting.

“C’mon, personal space, Cas,” Dean jokes, but it falls flat between them. He clears his throat. “Anyway. I’m pretty sure this is what you are.”

He holds the book out into the space between them, and Castiel tentatively leans closer once more. Cas only gets to read the books in the small church when they get left open, or things that are dropped or left in the cemetery, so it’s novel to have a book being _offered_ to him now, but he forces himself to focus on the words that are _important_.

_A spirit that exists in the liminal space between our world and the next, the church grim is the spirit of the first soul to be laid to rest within the grounds of a consecrated cemetery, and is tasked with guiding newly departed spirits onto the next world._

A grim. Castiel is a _grim_.

“Oh,” he says softly. He tries to keep reading, but the words seem to swim in front of his vision, so he gives up and sits back. Dean is watching him, cautious and concerned.

“Was that a… good ‘oh’? You said you were stuck here, so I wanted to figure out why, and I… I thought you’d be happy to find out.”

Castiel tries to pull himself together, and gives Dean a small nod. Almost a hundred and fifty years, and he _finally_ knows why he’s here. “Yes, I wanted to know. Thank you for telling me.”

But now that he knows, now that he’s read the book… “Does it say anything else about them?” he asks. “About… me? Is there any way for me to eventually leave?”

Something passes across Dean’s expression, and he looks away, slowly closing the book. Castiel knows, even before Dean vocalizes his response.

“If there is, Cas… I couldn’t find it. I’m really sorry.”

There’s a feeling in Castiel’s chest that he can’t place, one that twists and pulls and _aches_ , deep inside. “It’s okay,” he says, even though it’s not okay. It’s _so far_ from okay.

But he can’t dwell on that, not right now. Processing that can wait until Dean has left—for now, he needs to make the most of having someone he can actually talk to, because who knows when he’ll get this opportunity again.

“How do you know so much about spirits?” he asks, in a desperate attempt to distract himself from the new information that feels as though it might crush him.

Dean tucks the book back inside his duffel and pulls his knees up to his chest. Whether he’s thinking, or simply doesn’t know how (or _want_ ) to say, Castiel isn’t sure, but there’s a long pause before Dean finally speaks. “My dad taught me,” he says quietly.

_The man takes the baby and leads Dean away from the new grave. “Can we come back and visit mommy and Cas? Please, daddy?”_

_The man casts one look back at the grave, and it’s impossible to miss the fear in his eyes. He doesn’t reply._

“Oh,” Castiel says once more, because he doesn’t know what else he can possibly say. Those four words speak volumes.

“Yeah.” Dean clears his throat, looking out over the hill to the town beneath them and beyond, where the sun is starting to sink toward the horizon. “When I could talk to you, see you… it freaked him out. I guess he assumed you had something to do with my mom dying, or disappearing, and as time went on… I think things got twisted around in his head. He started teaching himself to hunt ghosts, and the deeper he went, the more he found out about. There’s some scary shit out there, but it was the spirits he was really focused on. Taught me ‘n Sam how to force them to cross over, how to fight them if they were malevolent. And he told me…”

He inhales a shuddering breath and squeezes his eyes closed, just for a moment.

“He told me that you were bad, like the others. And so I resolved that one day, I’d come back, and I’d take you out. So that you couldn’t hurt anyone else.”

Castiel sits back. Hearing all that feels like he’s taken a physical blow to the chest, and he closes his eyes for a moment as he tries to curb the rush of emotion welling up inside him. Around them, the trees start to rustle, their limbs creaking against a nonexistent wind.

When he opens his eyes again, Dean is watching him, his eyes full of guilt and heartbreak. “I’m sorry, Cas,” he says. “I promise, I didn’t—I only remembered bits and pieces of mom’s funeral, and after so many years of dad being what he became after it, I didn’t know what to think. But now I know. I’d never hurt you.”

Castiel holds Dean’s gaze, searching, trying to discern any amount of falsehoods or lies.

He finds none. Those green eyes are open, pleading, aching with regret.

“It’s okay,” Castiel says quietly. He reaches out, as though to touch Dean’s shoulder, forgetting until he’s halfway there that he can’t. They both watch his hand drop, the way he curls it into a fist and hides it in his lap once more. “I know you won’t hurt me. I trust you, and I’m sorry your father misled you in such a way for so long.”

The trees around them slowly calm their rustling, until they’re perfectly still once more. Dean blows out a long breath.

“Thanks, Cas.”

They sit for a little while after, as the sun slowly dips, just sharing in the silence and the weight of all that has passed between them.

Again, Dean is the one to break it.

“Cas?” he asks quietly, as if he’s afraid to ruin the fragile moment.

Castiel hums in response—a _yes, go ahead_ —and Dean clears his throat.

“What was that day like? When we first met? I only really have my dad’s account, and I… I’d like to hear about it from you. If that’s okay.”

He should have been expecting this, really. He’s tried not to think about that day in recent years, when he had settled on the certainty that Dean was never going to return, but Castiel is pleasantly surprised to find that when he searches back in his memory, the scene rises to the forefront of his mind as though it was yesterday. It was only twenty years ago, after all. Castiel has seen much more than that.

“You and your father and brother drove up here in that car you drive now,” he recalls quietly, thinking back to that day. “You were holding your brother, and your mother… she was with the two of you. Talking to you, comforting you. And then… you saw me. No living person had ever been able to see me before—no one else has since.”

Castiel doesn’t need to look over at Dean to know that Dean is watching him attentively, hanging on his every word. It makes it harder to focus on putting his memory into words, but he does his best. “We talked for a little bit,” he says, “but mostly I gave your mother space to say goodbye. She stayed with you until she was ready to pass over, and then… and then she made me promise to look after you. After that, she left, and then _you_ left. Your father did not look happy after you mentioned me—looking back on that moment now, it doesn’t surprise me to know that he was afraid of me. To know what he became because you met me.”

 _And what_ you _became because of that_ , Castiel thinks to himself, but he doesn’t say it.

Dean blows out a long breath. “Is that what you meant, when you said you failed mom?” he asks, and Castiel blinks in surprise.

“You thought you’d failed her,” Dean clarifies, when Castiel does nothing but stare blankly at him, “because you said you’d look after me, and then I never came back.”

 _Oh_.

“Yes,” Castiel says quietly. “That is what I meant. But that’s not your fault, Dean, just as I know now that it’s not my fault, either. It just is what it is—but I hope that now you can see things from my perspective, now that you know the full story.” He gives Dean a small, tentative smile, trying not to admire the way that the light of the setting sun makes Dean’s green eyes glow. “I hope we can be friends, you and I.”

Dean’s smile is nothing like Castiel’s. It is wide and warm and forgiving, this beautiful man with his dirt-stained hands who has captivated Castiel already, like no one else has in all his years. His smile sets something alight in Castiel in that moment, something fragile but fierce, so powerful that he can feel it in his chest.

“Of course we’ll be friends, Cas,” Dean says. Just that—so simple, as though there had never been any doubt.

 _Of course_. 

They don’t say much of anything after that. Instead, they just sit, looking out over the world beyond until the sun sinks below the horizon and the closing of the cemetery forces Dean to say goodbye.

And so Castiel is left, once again, alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> asphodel: my regrets follow you to the grave.


	5. 3-10-17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A huge thank you to cap for your alpha and beta help with this chapter! Your advice is, as always, invaluable <3
> 
> I hope everyone is doing okay at the moment and looking after yourselves. I'm sorry that it's been a while since my last update, but I'm trying to write more right now, so I hope you guys enjoy this chapter :)

This time, Castiel isn’t alone for long.

True to his word, Dean returns, and Castiel gets the opportunity to get to know him better. Dean drops by the cemetery whenever he’s able—which is whenever he’s within a few hours’ drive of Lawrence—and they spend the hours he’s able to visit chatting about anything and everything.

It’s nice to have someone he can talk to, share stories and experiences with, and Castiel treasures Dean’s presence more than he treasures anything else in the world. After just a few months of Dean’s visits, Castiel realizes that for the first time in a long time, he has a friend. It’s a wonderful feeling, and one that he never wants to lose.

So, of course, it stands to reason (but oh, how cruel) that he would fall in love.

**3-8-31**

It doesn’t take Dean long to figure out that Castiel likes to read. Whenever Dean comes to visit, they chat about odd, idle things, and Castiel must let slip that he misses reading, because the next time Dean turns up at the cemetery, he has a small stack of books with him.

“I wasn’t sure what you liked,” he says sheepishly, “so I brought a little bit of everything.”

He wasn’t kidding. There are some old texts in there, ones that Castiel foggily remembers from when he was alive that look as though they’re about to fall apart, but it’s the newer ones that catch Castiel’s attention. The books with lovers on the front, or monsters, or things that Dean dubs ‘spaceships’ and that Castiel can’t help but be insanely curious about.

In the end, he can’t decide, so he picks one at random. They spend that afternoon near Mary’s grave, lying in the grass in the shade of a tree with Dean turning the page when Castiel declares he’s finished with it.

Before they know it, they’ve been there for hours, reading about far-away worlds together with their heads bowed close. It’s only when the groundskeeper mentions to Dean that the gate will be closing soon do they snap out of their reverie—much to Castiel’s disappointment.

Dean says goodbye, but he leaves the book with Cas, stashed away in the gazebo where it can’t be damaged and where Castiel can focus his hardest on turning the pages to keep reading more.

**3-2-15**

Sometimes, when Dean turns up, he’s sporting injuries that make Castiel’s gut wrench. This time, it’s a black eye and some mottled bruising around his jaw that hurts to even _look_ at. Castiel can’t imagine how sore he must be feeling.

“What happened?” he asks quietly, once they’re situated with their backs against the pine tree. Dean was careful to sit with his good side facing Castiel, hiding the awful bruising, but they’re still both well aware of its existence.

Dean sighs, long and slow. “It was a pissed-off ghost down in Oklahoma,” he says. “She was cheated on by her husband, but was too disoriented after she died to realize that he’d passed away too, not long after her. So she stuck around, trying to find him to enact her revenge, and eventually got more desperate. I guess I must’ve resembled her husband,” he jokes bitterly, trying for a smile and then wincing when it just aggravates his injuries. “She did _not_ like me.”

Castiel’s heart aches, and he wishes more than anything that he could touch Dean, comfort him, fix his injuries and stop him from hurting. Instead, all he can say is, “That must have been very difficult. I’m glad you’re okay.”

This time, the corner of Dean’s mouth ticks up in a tiny smile, despite the bruises. “Thanks, Cas. Me too. I eventually got her to move on and cross over, but it was touch and go there for a bit. Solo hunting fucking sucks, man.”

And that catches Castiel’s attention. “You do all this… this dangerous stuff… by yourself?” he asks. It makes sense now, because Dean has never mentioned anyone else or visited with anyone else since that day twenty years ago, but… it makes Castiel very uneasy to know that Dean is out there with no backup and no one to contact if anything goes wrong. He would help, if he could, but there’s only so much he can do as a spirit who can’t leave his graveyard and still struggles to understand what a cell phone is, let alone figure out if his powers will let him use one.

“Yup,” Dean says quietly. “Just me. Used to do it with dad, but we didn’t always see eye to eye, so we went our separate ways. Sammy’s still over in California, studying. Little shit’s too smart to be doing grunt work like I do.”

Castiel frowns, picking apart those last words for the true meaning that lies beneath. “Dean,” he reprimands gently, “you are not stupid, nor is what you do ‘grunt work.’ You are clever, and strategic, and if you ever wanted to do something that wasn’t hunting, you could. I may not know how much of the world works any more, but of that, I am completely certain.” His voice softens, and he pauses to make sure the impact of his words is properly sinking in. “There is so much more that you are capable of, Dean,” he says quietly. “Trust me.”

Dean does not reply. When Castiel looks over, he is sitting with his back against the tree and his arms looped loosely around his knees, looking out over the cemetery.

Castiel doesn’t mind Dean’s silence, because he knows that his words are sinking in. That Dean is considering the weight of them, and what kind of shape they will hold in his heart. And if Castiel has been able to do that, then that is all he ever asks.

He may not be able to touch Dean, but there are other ways for them to leave their marks on each other, and to carry a part of each other with them always.

They don’t speak much for the next little while. Castiel presses as close as he can to Dean without actually touching him (or _not_ touching, because that point of overlap is just uncomfortable for them both). His thoughts don’t ever leave Dean, and neither do his powers, limited as they are.

When it finally comes time for Dean to leave, Castiel catches a glimpse of the side of Dean’s face that he had been keeping hidden. It warms him to see that some of the bruises have faded, leaving clear, freckled skin in their wake.

**2-11-3**

Dean introduces Castiel to music.

He knows music, of course—knows songs from a childhood spent in churches, knows the music that is played at funerals sometimes. But he doesn’t know music like _Dean_ knows music.

Dean’s music is loud, with a boldness to it that thrums through Castiel and makes him want to _move_ , to go out and _do_ things and give some kind of physicality to the beat and the melody that seems to feel like a tangible _thing_.

When Dean brings his little portable music box with him, they sit in the grass and listen to whatever Dean feels like listening to that day. Castiel has no preferences—he’s intrigued by everything, and more than happy with whatever Dean chooses.

They get disapproving looks, sometimes—or, at least, _Dean_ does, since he just looks like a young man sitting by himself and playing music in the middle of a cemetery. Castiel always glares at the ones who give Dean rude looks. It makes him feel better, even if they can’t see his disapproval.

“I wish you could come with me,” Dean says one day. Guitar riffs curl upwards towards a cloudy blue sky. “In the Impala. We could just listen to classic rock and fuckin’ drive. You’ve never experienced music until you’ve played it as loud as you can with the windows down and the highway wind in your hair, Cas.”

Dean’s face is bright and open, and there’s something behind his eyes that comes alive around music, as though it brings out a totally new side of him. Castiel _aches_ to experience music in the way that Dean has experienced it throughout his life, but getting to see this glimpse, and feeling the tiniest bit of it for himself…

It’s enough.

**2-3-8**

It takes a lot of Castiel’s energy to manipulate things. It’s only a finite resource, after all, and so he has to be careful about how he uses it. Most of the time it’s for good deeds—returning lost items, scaring away hoodlums, leaving a single flower on an otherwise barren grave.

But recently, Castiel has been putting all of his energy into a… _project_.

There’s a little patch of grass behind the church that hasn’t been touched in a long time. An old groundskeeper had created the beginnings of a garden bed, but had left before he could finish it, and so now it lies forgotten. But not by Castiel.

Slowly, over the course of many days, he focuses on rolling the remainder of the stones into a nice border for the flowerbed. Then he turns to nourishing the soil within, and removing any weeds that might choke his projects while they are still growing.

Finally, once everything is perfect and ready, Castiel focuses all his energy with all his might, and begins to _create_.

It takes a while—but time is something he has an abundance of. His days become a cycle of working and resting, breaking to spend time with Dean whenever he visits (and so that he can keep his gift a secret until it’s ready).

On the day that he deems his gift ready to reveal to Dean, the sun is shining overhead, and the sky is perfectly blue. Dean had said “see ya in two weeks, Cas”—Castiel has been anxiously counting down the days—and he gives the flowerbed one more check for anything out of place or not fully grown.

It’s _perfect_.

Something registers at the edges of his consciousness, and when Castiel casts his thoughts outwards, he sees a familiar car pulling into the parking lot. It’s time, it’s time for Dean to see his gift, and were Castiel still alive, his heart would be hammering in his chest right now. As it is, he can barely keep himself still, and forces himself to wait before blinking over to Dean.

He makes it until Dean has climbed out of his car, at least, but then he can’t help himself: he blinks to the front gates, the very edge of where he can go, and watches Dean from across the parking lot with a nervous energy running through him. It’s a few moments before Dean spots him, and when he does, his face lights up like the sun itself coming out from behind the clouds.

 _Good god_ , Castiel thinks. _I really am in trouble_.

“Heya, Cas,” Dean says when he gets close enough. Thankfully, there’s no one else around right now, so they don’t have to worry about Dean looking like a crazy person. “You been keepin’ outta trouble?”

Castiel gives Dean a look that he hopes conveys the truth depth of his unimpressed-ness. “You know full well that I can’t leave the cemetery. There’s not much ‘trouble’ I can get up to around here.”

Dean just grins. It’s clear he’s teasing, and Castiel can’t help but let his unimpressed look fade into a smile. “That said,” he muses, feigning nonchalance while he sees Dean’s interest pique, “I _do_ have something to show you.”

There’s curiosity on Dean’s face now, and Castiel can’t help but feel a little smug as he turns away, guiding Dean up towards where he’s been working on the surprise. It feels like Dean has him on the back foot so often, whether he means to or not, that it’s nice to be able to flip the tables. Just for today.

He leads Dean up to the church and past it, to the garden out back that’s been so neglected. “Close your eyes,” he orders, and Dean does. As much as he wishes he could guide him by touch, with a hand on his elbow or against the small of his back, he has to make do with verbal instructions, until Dean is standing in front of the flowerbeds. Waiting.

“Okay,” Castiel whispers. “Open.”

It’s easy to tell when Dean has opened his eyes—he inhales, so quietly that any normal person would have missed it, but to Castiel, it makes his heart sing. “Wow, Cas,” Dean breathes, and Castiel just watches him for a second, captivated, before turning to follow Dean’s gaze.

The flowerbeds are full of bright, yellow flowers. Castiel had put all his effort into growing every single one of the daffodils that now stand in the soil, petals facing up towards the sun. They’ve always been some of Castiel’s favourite flowers, and now he hopes that he can share that with Dean.

“Did you grow these for me?” Dean asks quietly, crouching down to get a closer look at the flowers. Castiel follows him, but instead of looking at the flowerbeds, he can’t help but find his gaze drawn towards Dean instead.

“I did, yes.” Castiel’s voice is quiet—he doesn’t want to break this perfect moment, just the two of them beneath a beautiful blue sky, surrounded by golden flowers.

Dean reaches out to touch one of them, his hand brushing reverently over the petals. It’s _real_ , and Castiel grew them from nothing, and _damn_ , he’s pretty proud of himself for that.

“It’s beautiful, Cas,” Dean whispers, turning to fix Castiel with a grin that lights up his whole face and ignites something bright and burning inside Castiel.

“Yes,” Castiel replies quietly, unable to take his eyes off Dean even as he turns back towards the flowerbeds. “Yes, it is.”

**1-11-27**

Dean has never stayed in one place for very long. He’s said that to Castiel, over and over again—that he goes where people need him, where there are monsters to be killed and spirits to be encouraged to move on. _Sedentary_ is not a word that could _ever_ be used to describe Dean.

So when he turns up one day with a grin from ear to ear, Castiel is not expecting the nature of his news to be what it is _at all_.

“Cas, I’ve bought a house!”

Castiel just stares at him.

Dean, the man who lives out of his car, who has half a dozen fake credit cards, who has said so many times that even Lawrence has never felt like a proper home to him…

Has bought a house.

“I—what? Why?” is all Castiel can manage, totally blindsided by this announcement.

It’s the wrong thing to say. Dean’s face visibly falls. Castiel can see him start to withdraw in on himself—which is not what he’d wanted at all, so he rushes to reassure him. “No, Dean, I’m sorry, that came out wrong.” He holds his hands up placatingly, earnestly, and watches Dean pause. _Thank god_. “I just meant… you’ve never stayed very long in one place, let alone really had your own home. Why buy a house now? Why here? And also… well, how?”

That earns the tiniest of smiles from Dean, and Castiel feels himself relax as he sees Dean start to open up once more. “Well,” Dean starts, as he and Castiel fall into step together, wandering up towards the church, “not a lot of it is legal, to be fair. A couple of card scams, a _fuck-ton_ of pool hustling and betting. It all adds up—although it’s definitely nothing fancy. One bedroom, and a lot of DIY projects, but it’s mine. And… well…”

He trails off, scuffing his feet over the gravel of the path as they walk. A couple walk past them, eyeing Dean slightly oddly as if they’d seen him talking seemingly to himself, but don’t pause and continue walking.

Even once they’re out of earshot, it’s a few moments before Dean speaks. Castiel doesn’t press him, just waits patiently.

“It’s nice to be closer to here,” Dean says finally, his voice quiet. “Nice to have some kind of a home base, near Mom. And… well, near you, I guess.”

If Castiel had to pinpoint it, had to put a moment to the feeling, to the _beginning_ …

It would be here.

“Oh,” he says, taking a few seconds to process that. There’s a feeling inside his chest, like a bird unfurling its wings. “Okay.”

**1-7-19**

They’re sitting in the gazebo, Dean sprawled out on one of the benches and Castiel perched on a railing, when something that Castiel has been curious about for a long time finally comes up in conversation.

“—yeah, I’ve been to pretty much every state,” Dean is saying. “It’s easy with a car, y’know? We went all over with dad when we were little, and now that Baby’s mine, I can take her anywhere. Hell, I even drove to California once, to visit—“

He cuts himself off, and something sad passes behind his eyes, like a shadow.

Castiel is deathly curious, but he doesn’t want to push. Instead, he just slips down from the railing, quietly taking a seat on the bench beside Dean’s head. _I’m here to support you_ , is what he wants to say with it, and Dean must understand, because he gives Cas a quick, grateful smile before his eyes close tiredly.

“To visit Sam,” he finishes, and his voice is softer than it had been before. _Sadder_.

 _Oh_.

“You don’t see him much anymore?” Castiel asks quietly. With Dean’s eyes closed and his head resting on the bench right next to Castiel’s thigh, the urge to run his fingers through Dean’s hair—or physically comfort him in _any_ way he can—is so strong.

Dean shakes his head, and Castiel forces his hand back into his lap from where it had been straying towards the edge of his thigh. “Nah, he decided the hunting life wasn’t for him—which, honestly, I kinda expected. But him and dad had a huge fight about it before he left, and… well, now he’s in California, studying at Stanford—that’s a university out there. We talk occasionally, but… we live different lives now. We’re different people. I dunno, it’s weird.”

There’s pain in Dean’s voice, when he talks about Sam, but also a kind of numbness. As though he’s long since locked away the part of him that mourns a relationship that is just a ghost of what it once was.

Castiel feels the corners of his mouth pull down, his heart heavy with sadness. “I’m sorry,” he says quietly. “It must be really hard, living so far apart and living such different lives.” From what he remembers of the maps he’s seen, California really _is_ a far-away place. He couldn’t imagine travelling there, let alone having someone important to him live so far away.

A quiet sigh works its way out of Dean’s chest, and his gaze shifts, looking up to meet Castiel’s. “You don’t have to be sorry,” he says quietly. “It was Sam’s choice. Just… still sucks, is all. But thanks for listening, Cas. You’re a good… friend.”

Castiel doesn’t know what the pause meant—what meaning Dean had been conveying with it, or what had been going on in his head when his lips had formed around those words. Maybe nothing. _Probably_ nothing.

But even still, as they sit there in the gazebo together with the silence stretching out between them, so close and yet so far…

Castiel can’t help but replay them in his head, over and over, until his heart aches with their weight and the weight of everything between them that goes unsaid.

**1-5-10**

Technically, Castiel shouldn’t let Dean into the cemetery after the gates are closed. He is its protector, after all, and he’s spent many years gently scaring off people who wandered in after the official hours.

But Dean is different. Dean has always been different, in so many ways.

They’re lying in the grass at the top of the hill, side by side, gazing up at the stars. Tonight is totally clear, without a single cloud to be seen in the sky, and up above them, thousands of stars glitter in the dark.

“I can’t remember the last time I just… looked up at the night sky,” Dean murmurs quietly. “It really makes you feel small, huh?”

Castiel tries not to think about the stars—about how there is _so much_ out there that he hasn’t seen, both discovered and undiscovered, in this realm and the next, and yet he’s still stuck here. But tonight is not for that. Tonight is for the _beauty_ of the stars, and for the gift of Dean’s company.

“It does,” Castiel agrees quietly. “It’s very beautiful, though. I wish I knew more about the stars—if people were able to go to the moon, they must know a lot about them by now.”

Dean looks over, his eyes silver-green in the light of the moon, and grins. “Oh, Cas, you have no fucking idea. There are people up in space _right now_ , doing science and research and shit. Did I tell you about the ISS?”

Castiel frowns up at the sky. “I don’t recall. I don’t think so. What is it?”

“It stands for the ‘International Space Station.’ It’s a spacecraft that orbits around the earth, and astronauts from all different countries live on it. Pretty fucking cool, right? And you can even see it from here, sometimes. It looks like a moving star.”

 _All different countries, orbiting around the earth._ If anyone had told that to the people who’d been alive back when Castiel was, they would have laughed. But now… now it’s a reality.

The world has moved on so much that it almost scares him, sometimes, but it’s also utterly incredible.

“Very cool,” Castiel agrees quietly. He looks up at the stars for a few moments more, trying to see if any of them are moving, then gives up.

When he looks back over, Dean is still watching him, his gaze soft and expression unreadable. They share a quick smile, and Castiel feels himself _ache_ , somewhere behind his sternum.

For the rest of the night, they lie there and watch the stars, teaching each other about constellations and Dean revealing to Castiel just how far the human race has come in the years since he’s died. They stay there until Dean’s eyes start to droop, and he’s half-dozing off in the grass, and Castiel can’t help but gaze over at him and think,

_In the vastness of this great big universe and all the worlds beyond it… I am so glad I met you, Dean Winchester._

**1-3-0**

Castiel has felt lonely a lot, in his existence. It’s impossible not to, as he spends his days invisible to most, and it _aches_ , but it’s an ache he’s learned to live with.

But this ache is different.

When Dean is gone, it’s like there’s a hole in his heart, a yearning void that can only be filled by green eyes and a beautiful Kansas drawl. The sun comes out when he’s around, and Castiel feels impossibly more alive, but it hurts more and more each time he leaves, when Castiel finds himself alone once again.

It takes him so long to realize it, and even longer to come to terms with it. All the while, Dean keeps visiting, more and more often, and the feeling in Castiel’s chest continues to grow, until finally, he can’t ignore it any more.

He’s sitting in his pine tree when he finally accepts it, legs dangling off the branch and palms pressed against the bark. The sun is setting over the horizon, and as Castiel finds himself washed in golds and oranges, he finally lets the thought take shape, like a sob he can’t keep holding back any longer.

 _I’m in love with Dean_.

His breath hitches in his chest, and when he exhales, he lets out a quiet, pained sound that he’s glad no one else can hear.

Because it should feel good to finally get that off his chest, and admire it to himself… but it doesn’t.

It just hurts.

And now, with this knowledge in his heart of hearts, Castiel doesn’t know how he’s ever going to be okay again.


	6. 0-11-21

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope everyone is doing okay at the moment. If you're not, and you need someone to talk to or vent to, please know that you are always welcome to contact me on [tumblr](https://saltnhalo.tumblr.com/) or discord (saltnhalo#4051). Please look after yourselves <3
> 
> I've had a rough few days, so I'm posting this unbeta'd, because holy shit do I need to be cheered up by having people read this and ~~suffer~~ love this with me.
> 
> Enjoy <3

**0-11-21**

It feels like they exist in a kind of limbo. Dean visits, and Castiel looks forward to his visits like he looks forward to the sun rising every day, but he never says anything about it. How can he, after all? Dean still has so much of his life to live, and Castiel…

Well, Castiel made peace with the reality of his existence a long time ago.

The years have passed since they first met, then met again, and Castiel has watched as Dean had grown older. He is no longer the impulsive boy he met that night, on the anniversary of Mary’s death—time and experience have wizened him, just a little. He still doesn’t have anything on Castiel’s century-plus worth of worldly experience (not that he knows much about the current world), but it’s a start.

Dean gets to live his life, and Castiel gets to live vicariously through him in the times that he visits—which have become more and more frequent since Dean moved closer. It’s nice, but at the same time, it just reminds Castiel of the distance between them, and all the things in the world that he cannot have.

Freedom. New experiences. _Dean_.

But still. What he has… it has to be enough. He has to make peace with it, because he doesn’t have any choice.

Even so, the first time Dean mentions a woman, it hurts more than Castiel could have expected.

They’re sitting beneath the pine tree, laid out in the sun. Dean is on his back, looking up at the branches, while Castiel is encouraging a bumblebee to fly lazy loops around his fingers.

“So I met this girl at the bar in town last night.”

Castiel closes his hand around the bee by accident, wincing when it buzzes with the discomfort of being touched by a spirit. Quietly, he apologizes to it, then nudges it away with his palm and, reluctantly, turns his attention back to Dean.

Dean isn’t looking at him—instead, his gaze is upturned, to where the clouds pass by overhead. His fingers twist idly in the hem of his shirt. “She was really cute,” he continues, and his voice has turned soft, almost introspective. “We chatted for a bit, I bought her a few drinks, and usually I’d go home with her, but…”

There’s something about Dean, today. A tension, a longing, something _off_ about him that Castiel can’t place.

“I didn’t,” Dean finishes. “I just… didn’t. Wasn’t interested. And I don’t… I don’t really know why.”

 _Not as bad as I’d thought, but… still_.

The mental image of Dean sitting with a girl, in a place that Castiel will never be able to go, the two of them living lives he will never again be able to live… it hurts. And even though he hadn’t slept with her, hadn’t taken it past just a few drinks and a flirt…

“Weird,” Castiel says quietly, and his flat tone makes it clear that this isn’t a subject he wants to touch on any further. In his peripheral vision, he sees Dean watch him for a few moments, then turn his head away again. His shoulders seem to droop.

“Yeah,” he agrees, his voice soft. “Weird.”

They don’t talk much, after that. It’s like a rift has appeared between them, and Castiel hates it. The rift is one that could easily be crossed with words, it seems— _Dean, I don’t want to hear you talk about other people because I’m in love with you_ —but those are words that Castiel doesn’t know how to give a voice to. They’re not words he’s ever said, not to anyone, and besides…

The idea of stepping off the edge of that cliff with no idea if anything will catch him, and no clue if Dean feels the same way, is too terrifying.

And so he says nothing, and just continues to watch the sky, while his thoughts circle around and around, and his heart grows heavier with each moment that passes.

**0-9-4**

Castiel’s cemetery is blanketed in a thin layer of snow, everything powder-white and perfectly still.

It’s Christmas Eve, he knows that much—people have come to lay things on their loved ones’ graves, wreathes and little wrapped presents and other decorations. They talk about their Christmas plans, the food they will share with their family and the gifts they will exchange. Castiel knows from experience that listening to them talk will only make his loneliness into an even sharper ache once they are gone, but he can’t help it.

Just for one night, he can pretend, right? Pretend that he has a family, people to spend the holiday with, to eat too much with and watch them smile as they open his presents. And so he sits on the graves and he listens to the conversations as they float by, ignoring the ache in his chest where his beating heart once was.

Hours pass, and eventually it comes time for the cemetery to close. The people are gone, the graves are silent, and it’s just Castiel who remains.

Except for Gil.

It always takes Castiel a little bit of time to get used to a new caretaker, but in the few months since he took over from Henry, Gil has grown on him surprisingly quickly. He’s clever, and kind, and the old songs he sings make Castiel smile in memory of the time he was born in.

Castiel watches as he prepares to close up the front gates, greying hair hidden under a beanie and his gentle hum crystallizing in the cold winter air. Another person, heading home to their family.

The trees creak gently beneath the strength of Castiel’s heartache, and just for a second, Gil pauses. His hands still on the heavy locking mechanism of the gate, he looks out over the cemetery, and—for the briefest moment—his gaze passes over Castiel.

“To whoever’s still here,” Gil says to the empty cemetery, his voice carrying over the snow-covered silence to where Castiel stands, alone. “Merry Christmas.”

And then he pulls the gate closed. As the light of his torch bobs away towards his car, Castiel is left by himself…

But as those words ring in his head, the warmth of a kind man who couldn’t have been certain that Cas was there but had wished him a Merry Christmas anyway…

He doesn’t feel quite so alone.

**0-9-3**

On Christmas Day, Dean comes to visit.

For a little while, it’s as though there’s no distance between them, no unsaid words forming an invisible wall. Instead, they’re like they always have been—sharing stories and knowledge and making each other laugh. Dean brings snacks and a stereo, and they listen to carols together on a bench that Dean has swept free of snow.

But eventually, like every time before, Dean has to leave. Sam’s at his house, he says, he’d flown in for Christmas for the first time in years, and now that Dean isn’t hunting as much, they’re finally repairing the bonds between them.

He looks so _happy_. Castiel wants to be bitterly jealous of him, but he can’t, because he’s in love with Dean, and when he talks about Sam, he lights up from the inside.

So instead, he says, “Have a good time, Dean. Merry Christmas.”

And watches as Dean walks away from him yet again.

**0-8-28**

On New Year’s Eve, Dean brings beers and his radio to the cemetery. It’s cold, so cold, but Dean insists that he doesn’t feel it, tucked up in his thick jacket and beanie like he is.

It’s nice to be able to ring in another year with someone to accompany him this time, instead of watching the fireworks by himself. It means a lot to Castiel that Dean is here.

They listen to the music and the radio hosts as the clock slowly winds down. Dean seems to be enjoying his beers, and Castiel wishes he could drink, not for the first time, but amuses himself vicariously through Dean’s happiness anyway. He gets looser and more chatty when he drinks, and Castiel finds himself moving closer, taking advantage of the moments that Dean is distracted or his mind is elsewhere to just _admire_ him. He’s such a beautiful man, and on a night like this, where the moon and the dim cemetery lights make his eyes glow?

It’s almost too much.

Eventually, the minutes tick down towards midnight, and the radio hosts begin their countdown.

_Ten._

_Nine._

“Here we go, Cas!"

Dean’s cheeks are a little pink, from the cold and the alcohol. He grins, wide and excited, and Castiel can’t help but mirror it.

_Eight._

_Seven._

He’s so close that Castiel can see the freckles across his nose, and the arch of his cupid’s bow. If he were human, if he were alive...

_Six._

But he’s not.

_Five._

He has to remember that.

_Four._

This is just another year in which he and Dean will stay friends, and nothing more.

_Three._

No matter how hard he wishes…

_Two._

It can never be.

**0-8-27**

_One_.

Far off in the distance, fireworks explode into the night sky, dazzling arrays of multicoloured beauty against the black sky he has admired with Dean so many times. Castiel has been told that it’s tradition to kiss someone as the clock rolls over into the new year.

He’s never wanted that so much as he has now.

“Happy New Year!” Dean exclaims with a grin. His green eyes reflect the lights that sparkle and glitter up above. “I’ve got a good feeling about this one, Cas.”

Castiel desperately hopes that he’s right.

**0-7-18**

It’s a surprisingly long while into their friendship until Castiel finds out that one of the assumptions ( _the_ assumption, really) that he’s made about Dean hasn’t been true.

It’s a quiet, rainy Wednesday, and Dean is one of the few people visiting the cemetery grounds, and so he and Castiel are huddled under the awning of the church. Well, _Dean_ is huddled, keeping out of the rain, and Castiel is huddling with him because it feels weird not to.

They’ve been quiet for a little while, Dean catching his breath after their run to cover, and Castiel is perfectly happy to let the quiet stretch out between them. The gardens need the rain, and the sound of it pattering across the path and the tin roof and making the tree leaves dances is endlessly soothing.

The question comes out of nowhere.

“You ever have any girlfriends back in your time, Cas?”

Castiel can’t help but blink in surprise—he hadn’t even been expecting Dean to _talk_ , let alone ask a question so loaded, but he’s quick to school his expression into one of neutrality. “I didn’t have a girlfriend, no,” he says stiffly.

When he looks over after a few seconds of silence, Dean is watching him. There’s a slightly surprised look on his face. “What, so you’ve never… y’know. Never been kissed?” he asks, the words spilling out without him thinking about it, if the awkward look on his face that follows is anything to go by. “Shit—” he rushes to add, “I’m sorry, Cas, I—”

“That’s not what I said.” Castiel’s voice is quiet, but as he stares out at the rain, he knows it’s something he needs to get off his chest. “I just said that I’d never had a girlfriend, Dean. I’ve been kissed before, just not by…”

He clears his throat. Clenches his jaw. Even after almost a hundred and fifty years, it still feels wrong to divulge even a sliver of that part of himself. _Please don’t make me regret sharing this with you, Dean,_ he pleads silently. _I can’t… I don’t know what I’d do if I lost you, especially over this_.

But instead of moving away, or acting disgusted, Castiel sees Dean soften. “Oh,” he says quietly, in a way that Castiel knows means he understands.

Again, there’s that silence, winding Castiel up until he feels like he’s about to explode from all the tension of waiting, until Dean says—

“I’ve had girlfriends.” His tone is casual. Conversational. It doesn’t feel like a big deal when he adds, “Couple of boyfriends too, I guess.”

And now it’s Castiel’s turn to say, “Oh.” Dean smiles at him when he looks over, and there’s nothing but acceptance and understanding there. For the first time, sharing this part of himself feels like a weight has been lifted off Castiel’s shoulders.

He smiles back at Dean in return, and together, they watch the rain.

**0-6-13**

Today is one of the days that Dean is tired, and quiet.

He still has them sometimes, even though they seem fewer and further between these days. He doesn’t speak much, withdraws into his own head, and the bag under his eyes always seem more pronounced. On the days he _does_ talk about what’s going on, Castiel is able to infer that it’s usually about his past. His mother, his father, and the job that was thrust upon him at such a young age.

Sometimes Castiel forgets how young Dean is, yet just how much he has seen in this world.

So on days like this, he makes it his sole duty to distract Dean. To cheer him up, even just a little bit. If he leaves the cemetery with a smile on his face, then Castiel has done his job.

They’re walking across the grounds, side by side. The silence that hangs between them is still comfortable, but a little too heavy for Castiel’s liking. All he can hear is the _swish, snap_ of Dean’s switchblade as he fiddles with it while they walk, perfectly in time with their steps.

It’s not long before he can’t stand the sound any more, and so he starts to hum.

_Leaves are falling all around… it’s time I was on my way._

Dean looks over at him in surprise. The anxious flicking of the switchblade stops, and as Castiel watches, as he continues to hum what he knows is one of Dean’s favourite songs, Dean’s tense expression starts to relax. Only a few bars in, and there’s a tiny smile tugging at the corner of his lips, his eyes soft. When Castiel reaches the chorus, Dean joins in, and his voice is rich like smoke and molasses as his lips shape around lyrics so familiar.

They don’t talk much, but they wander, and they sing, and when Dean leaves with a little less weight on his shoulders at the end of the day, Castiel knows that it’s because of him.

**0-4-25**

Most of the time, when Dean comes to the cemetery, Castiel is there. But most disappointing are the days when Dean turns up, and Castiel is… well, wherever he goes when he’s _not_ on Earth. A ‘ghostly nap,’ as Dean calls it.

And today was one such day.

Castiel blinks back into the cemetery with a fuzzy feeling behind his temples and the sensation of lost time that he’s long since learned means he hasn’t been around for a little bit. As is his routine, he makes his rounds of the cemetery to check that there are no spirits who have arrived while he was gone, and need help with crossing over, but the sun is dipping down below the horizon, and the cemetery is totally empty.

It’s when he makes his way over to the gazebo, figuring he may as well watch the curlicued shadows stretch over the ground in the light of the setting sun, that he finds the note.

It’s a sheet of journal paper, folded once over itself. The front of it simply reads: _Cas_.

Castiel recognizes Dean’s handwriting straight away, from the cassette labels and the margin notes and the handful of pages from his journal that Dean has shown in, and his heart simultaneously lifts and sinks. Dean has left a note for him, which means Dean had been _here_ , and… and Castiel had missed him.

He’ll be back tomorrow, Castiel is sure—he always visits for a few days in a row, before he goes off to work or hunt again—but all his time with Dean is so precious, and missing even a single day still _hurts_. Castiel settles onto the bench beside the note and reaches for it, focusing his power to flip the note up so he can get to the contents. He’s gotten so much better at harnessing his abilities, thanks to his own practice and Dean’s help, and there’s a little spark of pride in his chest as he leans forward and reads over the note.

It’s short, but still lovely.

_Hey, Cas, it’s me. Came to see you today, but I couldn’t find you here. You musta been having a nap. Sam’s been in town, which is why I haven’t been able to visit you, but I’ll be back tomorrow and hopefully you’ll be around._

_It’s been real nice to see Sammy again. Thanks for helping me bridge the gap, I dunno what I would’ve done without you. I wish he could meet you someday, but for now, I’ve settled for telling him about you. I hope that’s okay—I probably shoulda asked first, huh? Shit._

_Anyway. I’ll see you tomorrow, hopefully._

_Miss you._

_Dean_

Castiel reads it, then rereads it, until the sun has disappeared below the horizon and he can no longer make out the words in the darkness.

**0-2-15**

There’s a spot in the side of the church where Castiel puts the things that are most important to him. A loose stone that he can pull out, shielding a little hole within the wall where he can store things. No one else knows it’s there, not even Dean, and Castiel is more than happy to keep it that way. If Dean ever found out how Castiel feels about him…

Not that he ever will. Dean has his life to live, after all. He’ll find a nice girl, settle down, get married, and all of it while Castiel is stuck here. In the same place, at the same age, with the same inescapable loneliness that he’s felt for so long.

But just for a little while, Castiel can pretend, and so that’s why he keeps his little collection.

It’s not much—it takes a lot for him to be able to move things, after all—but it means a lot to him. The note, a used party popper from New Year’s Eve, a cassette that Dean had left behind and then told Castiel he could keep when he tried to return it. A daffodil from the day he’d shown Dean the garden, still not wilted after so many months. A map of the stars with their favourite constellations circled on it.

He doesn’t get them out often—removing the stone is hard work, after all—but just knowing that they’re there is enough for him. He thinks about them a lot, just like he thinks about _Dean_ a lot, and in the times when he knows it will be a while until Dean is next able to visit, when he feels the most alone and misses his friend…

 _That’s_ when he turns to his little collection.

**0-1-8**

Castiel doesn’t think he’s ever seen Dean drunk.

He’s heard stories about what Dean gets up to when he _is_ drunk, sure, but he only brings alcohol to the cemetery when they're celebrating some kind of special occasion, and even then, he's only ever gotten a little tipsy.

But that doesn’t stop Dean from consuming alcohol _off_ the cemetery grounds.

Castiel is settling in for another quiet, uneventful night, when something pings his attention along the boundary of the cemetery. A small commotion, caused by a _person_ , it seems. “If it's those college kids again,” Castiel grumbles under his breath, mentally readying himself to have to chase a bunch of young adults out of his cemetery.

But when he blinks out to the fence, it’s not a college kid he finds.

It’s _Dean_.

Dean, leaning against the six-foot fence he must have just scaled, blinking dazedly at Castiel as he gets his bearings. It’s only a moment or two, and then his gaze seems to focus, and he grins. “Cas! Heya, dude. How ‘s your night been?”

There’s a touch of slurring to his usual drawling accent, and Castiel is yet to decide if it’s endearing or concerning. The fact that Dean is asking about his night is, at least, very sweet of him. “It was quite quiet, until someone decided to pay an after-hours visit,” he points out wryly. “I’m guessing you’ve had a good night?”

Dean shrugs his shoulders, then leans his head back against the bars of the fence with a _clunk_ that makes Castiel wince. “Wasn’ bad,” he says thoughtfully. “Went to a bar. Had a couple drinks… and then there was a guy… and I had a few more drinks… ‘n now I’m here?”

A guy. Of course.

“So you decided to come by on your way home from your ‘hookup’?” Castiel asks, somewhat more icily than he’d intended. He immediately regrets his tone, but he’s not expecting Dean to frown at him, his eyes clouded with confusion.

“Hookup?” he mumbles, swaying off to the side slightly before straightening himself again. “Nah, dude, I didn’t… I turned him down. He’s not…”

He trails off, blinking slowly at Castiel like he doesn’t quite see him. Castiel wants to shake him, to get the information out of him, because if he hadn’t gone home with the guy, then why is he here?

“Not what?” he prompts, taking a step closer to Dean, who goes slightly cross-eyed as he tries to focus on Castiel. “Not what, Dean? Why did you turn him down?”

The silence stretches out between them, and Castiel immediately regrets pushing so hard, because sober Dean would definitely be suspicious of his questioning, and just how strongly he's fixated on those two words.

Drunk Dean, though?

His gaze slides past Castiel and up, to the clear night sky. “Don’t the stars look nice tonight, Cas?” he asks quietly, and there’s such an earnestness to his expression that Castiel feels himself sigh, like a whole-body tension being released.

“Yes.” His voice is soft, and he keeps his gaze on Dean, drinking him in as he takes in the night sky with almost-childlike wonder. He knows what the stars look like, after all. They haven’t changed in a hundred and fifty years. “Yes, they do.”

**0-0-21**

It hurts more and more, every time Dean visits.

From everyone he’s talked to, everything he’s heard, love is supposed to make you feel complete. It’s supposed to make you feel like you can do anything, go anywhere, harness the clouds in the sky and the waves in the ocean and move mountains for the person you love. Love is supposed to be powerful, wonderful, transformative—and it _has_ been, don’t get him wrong.

But amongst it all, amongst the way Dean makes him laugh and learn and feel cared for…

Castiel’s love has only made him feel more alone.

**0-0-10**

It’s a regular Tuesday afternoon when the single kindest thing any person has ever done for Castiel happens.

He’s just come back from a ghost nap, and he blinks dazedly at the world as he gets his bearings once again. The cemetery is quiet, the sun is shining overhead, and as has become Castiel’s habit, he gives the grounds a quick scan for any signs of Dean, not at all expecting to find him here.

But he is. He’s here, and he’s over by Castiel’s grave.

Castiel feels his breath hitch in his chest, and before he can even properly process his own thoughts, he’s blinking across the cemetery to Dean.

Dean is standing with his back to Castiel, fiddling with something on his gravestone that he can’t make out from here. His attention is quickly drawn elsewhere, though—to the stereo, and the stack of books, and the telescope peeking out from Dean’s backpack where it lies in the grass. What is all this for?

“Dean?” he asks, and watches as Dean jumps half a foot in the air, then spins to face him. _Whoops_. It’s easy to forget how quiet he can be when he blinks in, especially since most people can’t ever hear him anyway.

“Holy _fuck_ , Cas, you scared the shit outta me!” Dean gasps, clutching his chest in a way that seems only semi-dramatic. “I’ve gotta put a fucking bell on you some day, or you’re gonna give me a fucking heart attack.”

Despite his surprise, there’s a teasing note in Dean’s voice already, and Castiel smiles at him. It’s amazing how he automatically feels so much _lighter_ around Dean. “My apologies,” he says sincerely, then gestures at the items lying on the grass beside his grave. “Dean, what is all this for? Am I missing something?”

All he gets from Dean for a few seconds is a confused look, and a slight tilt of his head. “What?” Dean says eventually, as though Castiel has said something that he can’t quite wrap his mind around. “Cas, you—don’t you know what today is?”

Castiel frowns, and casts his mind back, trying to think. There had been a service at the church two days ago, so he makes an educated guess based on that. “Tuesday?” he hedges, and Dean responds with a laugh that sits somewhere between incredulous and confused.

“You really don’t know what today is?”

Starting to get a little frustrated now, Castiel shakes his head. “I really don’t. Can you just tell me, please?”

Dean stares at him for a moment longer, then takes a slow step to the side to reveal Cas’s grave.

The flowers and grass have been trimmed and cared for, but that’s not what draws Castiel’s eye the most. No, it’s the party hat balanced on top of his gravestone, the banner across it that says _Happy Birthday!_ in bright bubble writing, and the thin, haphazardly wrapped present sitting propped against the stone.

“Oh,” he says quietly. “It… is it my birthday?”

From the bemused (and slightly sad) look that Dean gives him, Castiel deduces that yes, it is his birthday. In his defence, though, he hasn’t celebrated it in over a hundred years. Each day blurs into the next—each _year_ blurs into the next. Hell, he doesn’t even know _which_ birthday he’s celebrating. How long has he existed?

Luckily for him, Dean has done the math.

“It sure is, Cas. You’re a hundred and seventy-two years old today—which is pretty fuckin’ wild, if you ask me.” He gestures at the decorations, then runs his hand through his hair and shifts on his feet. “I didn’t know if you usually do anything—if figured you probably don’t—but I wanted to do something special for you, y’know?”

To have Dean go to all this effort for him, to bring along his favourite things and decorate for his birthday and even bring him a _gift_ …

Castiel can feel tears prickling at the backs of his eyes, and he forcefully wills them away, but has to quickly wipe one away when it comes dangerously close to spilling over. “Thank you, Dean,” he says quietly, his voice cracking against the syllables. “I can’t… this is the kindest thing anyone’s ever done for me.”

Dean just shrugs, as though it’s nothing, but when the sun hits him just right, Castiel swears that his eyes are a little shiny as well. “It’s the least I could do, Cas. You… well, you mean a lot to me. It’s about damn time I threw you a birthday party, right?”

That draws a watery laugh out of Castiel. “Fair enough,” he says, wishing more strongly than ever that he could touch Dean to give him the biggest hug he possibly could right now.

But he can’t.

So instead, he says, “So what’s in this present?”

**0-0-9**

The day after his birthday, Castiel sits by the hole in the wall, staring down at his latest addition to his collection.

Yesterday had been incredible—they’d played music, read Castiel’s favourite books, and then used the telescope to look up at the stars until Gil had come by and gently told Dean that he was closing up the gates.

But none of that compares to what he holds in his hands now.

_“I wish it could’ve been a photo, so it was really us, but… bein’ a ghost, you don’t photograph well ‘n all, so I figured I’d give you the next best thing. I’m no artist, but…”_

It’s a drawing—a drawing of the two of them, sitting side by side beneath the sycamore tree. It’s a little rough, perfect in its imperfections, but it’s undoubtedly them. For Castiel, who hasn’t seen himself for so long except in the rare reflection of glass and water, seeing himself is a little strange, but to have a likeness of _Dean_ , one that he can carry with him for the rest of his existence…

It’s more priceless, and more painful, than he ever could have imagined.

**0-0-1**

It’s a day like any other. Dean has spent the last few hours hanging out with Castiel at the cemetery, talking about his plans for the month ahead. He’s going to drive out to California to see Sam, he says, so he won’t be around for awhile, but he’ll be back before Castiel knows it.

Castiel will miss him, like he misses Dean in every moment he’s not around and even some moments that he is, but seeing Sam will make Dean happy, and that’s what’s important.

It’s not for another week, though, as Dean reminds Castiel on his way out.

“Don’t give me those puppy dog eyes, Cas!” he laughs as they walk towards the front gates. “I’m not going until next week, you’ve still got me for a little bit—and even then, i'm still coming back! I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

Castiel sighs, petulantly and on purpose because he knows it will make Dean grin. He’s correct. “Okay,” he acquiesces. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Dean.”

But as he stands by the gates and watches Dean drive away, waving goodbye out the window of the Impala…

Something in his soul feels as though it’s about to break.


	7. 0-0-0

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry... not sorry.

**0-0-0**

Tomorrow comes, as tomorrow often does.

But Dean is nowhere to be seen.


	8. 0-0-1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I made myself cry writing this, so I really hope you guys like this chapter as much as I do. It feels like a fitting almost-end to this story that I have given so much of my heart to and enjoyed writing so much <3

**0-0-1**

Castiel waits…

**0-0-2**

And he waits…

**0-0-3**

And he waits.

He tries not to let himself worry, but it’s so hard not to. Dean had made a _promise_ , and Castiel knows him. He knows that Dean is not one to break a promise lightly.

And so the worry churns around in his stomach, every waking moment consumed by thoughts of _Dean_. Castiel has spent so many years in this cemetery, but the last few have been so much more memorable than the hundred that had preceded them. His memories of Dean and the times they’ve spent together have always been something he holds close to his heart, but now, there’s no way he can look around the cemetery without being reminded of Dean. He is _everywhere_.

Castiel waits, and he tries not to think about Dean, and he tries (and fails) not to assume the worst.

Three days after Dean had been supposed to visit him, a new person shows up at the gates of Castiel’s cemetery.

He sees new people all the time—it’s par for the course of living in a cemetery—but this person strikes him as different. He’s tall, almost shockingly so, but he stands as though there’s a weight resting on his shoulders and crushing him into the ground. His face is haggard; he looks _exhausted_ , even from just standing outside the gates and looking up at the sign that says _Lawrence Memorial Cemetery_.

Castiel watches him from where he’s sitting on one of the benches—watches as he stands there for a minute, two minutes, three minutes. Just staring up at the sign.

Finally, after what feels like eons, he moves.

Even his steps are slow, as though he’s moving through molasses. As he walks through the gate and draws closer to Castiel, he can make out dark bags under the man’s eyes, and several days’ worth of beard growth shadowing his jaw. He looks like he’s going through hell, and honestly, Castiel can kind of relate.

He resolves to keep an eye on the man, idly following after him as he takes a path through the cemetery—a path that’s a little loopy and winding, as though he’s looking for something. Finally, they come to a stop at the sycamore tree, and Castiel figures that he’ll leave the guy alone now that he’s found the grave of whichever lost loved one he’s here to mourn.

But as Castiel turns to leave, the man sinks to his knees in front of a grave—one grave in particular, and one that Castiel is very familiar with.

Mary Winchester’s grave.

And suddenly, everything falls into place.

“Sam?” he breathes, and he feels as though his entire body has turned to ice. Dean was meant to be visiting Sam in just a few days, but if Sam is _here_ , and looking like _this_ —

_No. No, no no no._

He moves closer, but it feels as though he’s trying to wade through rising floodwater. His feet drag, his knees won’t lift, and he’s not sure if he’s going to collapse into the ground or shatter into a million pieces.

Castiel finally falls to his knees beside Sam, and looks pleadingly up into his face. His chest feels as though it’s closed in a vice grip, and his hands, when he curls them into fists against his thighs, are shaking.

“Sam,” he whispers, even though he knows it’s futile because Dean is the only one who can see him, and now Dean is—

He presses the heels of his hands against his eyes, then rakes his fingers through his hair as he tries not to cry, to scream, to unleash the emotions that threaten to tear him open and break him apart. “Please tell me it’s not true, Sam,” he whispers, over and over, as though repeating it will make it reality. “ _Please_ tell me it’s not true.”

For a long time, the two of them sit there at the foot of Mary’s grave, Sam staring emptily at her headstone while Castiel watches him with his and prays to every deity that might be out there that what he feels in his heart of hearts isn’t true.

Finally, Sam inhales, a long, shuddering breath, and then he speaks.

“I—I don’t know if you’re here, Castiel,” he says quietly, his voice cracking around the syllables. “Dean told me a lot about you, and I know he would want you to know, so I just have to… hope that you can hear me.” He swipes a hand over his eyes, but fresh tears are quick to well up, and this time, he just lets them track down his cheeks.

“He, um… he was driving home from the store a few days ago, and he…” Sam runs his fingers through his hair, then laces them behind his neck and looks up at the sky. “Fuck, he got t-boned by a semi, Cas. He got hit, and he… he didn’t make it.”

His voice chokes up towards the end, but Castiel can still hear him. Still knows the meaning behind his words, even thick with tears as they are.

Dean is dead. He’s dead, and he’s going to have to pass over, and if he’s going to be buried in the same place as his mom… _Castiel_ is the grim who’s going to have to help him pass over.

He’s going to lose his only friend—the one person who has ever been able to see him, who has brought light back into his existence.

Castiel feels numb. Hollow. His whole world has changed, and it could be enough to tear him apart.

But Sam?

Sam has lost his mother, and now he has lost his brother as well.

Castiel moves closer to Sam—close enough that, were he alive and corporeal, their shoulders would be brushing. He _aches_ for some kind of contact, some way to tell Sam _I’m here, you’re not alone, I know what you’re going through_. To have someone to share his grief with.

But that’s not an option. Not with Sam, and not with anyone, not any more.

And so he sits by Sam’s side, and the two of them grieve—together, but so distinctly apart.

**0-0-4**

He still can’t get used to it.

It feels just like any other day, in that the sun still shines, the birds still sing, the earth still turns. It feels almost cruel—someone Castiel loves has _died_ , and the world has the audacity to keep continuing on as though nothing had happened?

But for Castiel, _everything_ has happened.

Dean still consumes his every waking thought, but in such a different way now. He can’t stop thinking about the things they said on their last day, about the accident, about all the things that now, he will never get a chance to ssay.

Well. He might see Dean one last time, but how can he tell Dean how he feels right before Dean crosses over to a place that Castiel can never go? It would be cruel to both of them. No, it’s better to just continue to shoulder this burden alone.

But that knowledge doesn’t make this entire situation hurt any less.

Today, he’s curled up by the wall of the church, as small as he can make himself with his knees tucked up against his chest and his arms wrapped tightly around his legs. His loose stone is just a few feet away, but he can’t bring himself to look at his colelction. It would hurt too much.

Besides, he’s just so… _tired_. He doesn’t think he could muster the energy to bend a single blade of grass, let alone move the stone out of the wall. He’s drained. He’s _done._

_Dean is dead._

_Dean is going to move on._

_Dean’s role in my life has come to an end_.

The thoughts keep swirling around and around in Castiel’s mind, until he wishes he could claw them out, reach into his own head and remove each one until there’s nothing but blissful emptiness. Because this? Knowing what he had—a friendship, a _love_ so profound—and then losing it so quickly, without ever getting the chance to even hint at how he truly felt?

It’s devastating.

Castiel sits by the church for a long time, unable to make himself move When he finally does, it’s with slow, lethargic movements, as though his battery is completely drained.

 _Another Dean analogy. How am I_ ever _going to be able to separate myself from him? Will it take another hundred years?_

He dreads it already—the period of existing _after_.

While he’s been sitting, stuck in the paralyzing cage of his own thoughts, night has fallen. The cemetery is empty, the gates locked, and above, dark storm clouds gather thickly against the night sky.

Everything here reminds him of Dean, and so in an effort to get away from it all, the thoughts and memories of Dean that linger as though his ghost is _here_ already…

Castiel climbs.

He climbs up to the very top of his pine tree and stands on one of the branches, holding onto the thinness of the trunk to keep himself balanced as he stares up into the eye of the gathering storm. There’s something in it that resonates within him, deep in his soul, and he’s not sure if he’s _causing_ it, but he’s definitely _feeding_ it. His power vibrates through his chest and out his fingertips as his grief roils within his chest, and he feels the first tear spill down his cheek.

“It’s not fair,” he whispers, the words rasping in his throat. Once he’s given voice to his thoughts, though, he can’t stop—it all just comes surging out.

“It’s not _fair!_ ”

It comes out as a scream this time, one that tears itself up from his chest and spills into the storm-thick air. “He was the one thing I had,” he shouts at the darkness of the sky, “and now I have to say goodbye to him. I have to go back to a miserable, _lonely_ existence, because the one person I ever loved in the entirety of my existence is _gone_.”

The storm continues to rage around him, uncaring of his grief. It feels so wrong, for the world to keep turning, for storms to come and go and life to keep being lived.

Castiel has lost everything, and so the world should lose everything.

But it never does.

He stands at the top of his tree and screams until the heavens open up, until the sky splits in half with lightning, until he has nothing left in him and slumps against the trunk of the tree, exhausted and completely, emotionally spent.

“Why did I have to lose him?” he whispers quietly as the storm begins to subside, his grief leaving him empty once more like the pull of the ocean at low tide.

Castiel sinks down onto his branch, pressing the side of his face against the trunk and wishing it was possible to feel the bite of the bark against his skin. To feel _anything_ at all. “Please… just let me see him one more time,” he begs the universe. “Let me be the one to help him cross over. I can’t—I don’t know that I can stand never getting to see him again.”

The universe, as has always been the case, does not reply.

**0-0-5**

Castiel hasn’t rested since the day that Dean had been supposed to come but didn’t—the day, he now knows, that Dean had died.

He’s exhausted, and he can feel his grip on his powers beginning to fray, but there’s no way he can let himself disappear to wherever he goes for a nap when any moment could be the one that Dean finally comes back to him. Instead, he stays by the gates to the cemetery, sitting up on top of the old sign where he gets the best vantage point of the parking lot and part of the road. His legs dangle over the edge, and he can feel the gentle, insistent press that means he’s at the very edge of his boundaries, but thankfully it’s liminal enough here that he can get away with it.

And so he sits with his arms wrapped tightly around himself, kicking his feet listlessly against the sign and keeping watch over the road.

Any time anyone has turned up in the last few days, Castiel’s heart has leapt into his throat. _What if?_ his mind echoes, over and over. _What if this is Dean?_

Each time, he watches the hearses with bated breath, his shoulders slumping (in relief, or disappointment?) when he realizes that it’s not Dean. They’re still spirits that Castiel has to care for, though, and so he tries not to look as exhausted as he feels, and silently wills the spirits to say their goodbyes and cross over as quickly as possible so that he can return to his vigil from the top of the sign. Usually, he likes to take his time with these things—make the most of having another soul who can see him, make sure they get closer, hell, even walking to and from the gravesite like an actual alive person would.

But not right now. Whenever he needs to move anywhere, he blinks there—which probably isn’t helping the depleted-energy situation, but there’s no way he’s leaving his post for a fraction of a second longer than he has to.

Today is day five—five days after Dean was supposed to show, six days since the last time Castiel saw him, and will ever see him alive again. _Fuck_ , he doesn’t think he’ll ever get used to that. Doesn’t think it will ever stop hurting.

He keeps finding himself dozing off at his post. He doesn’t usually sleep unless he’s properly disappearing for a while, but right now he keeps losing time. A few minutes here, a few minutes there, and the quick breaks are probably the only thing keeping him going right now considering how exhausted he is, but there’s still that terror in the back of his mind about missing Dean.

How much longer can he survive like this? And even beyond that, once Dean has passed on…

How much longer can he survive at all?

Now that he’s known love, and now that he’s lost it, how can he possibly keep going?

He aches, he aches, he aches, and so the only thing he can possibly do right now is sit on the sign, holding his shattered heart in his hands, and continue his lonely vigil.

**0-0-6**

Castiel waits for six days to see Dean again. Six days of anguish and guilt and grief.

Six days of reconciling with the fact that he only gets to see Dean one last time.

He knows he’s lucky—most people don’t get a second chance, after their loved one has died. Many people get a chance to say goodbye at all. But for Castiel, it’s different.

He never got a chance to tell Dean he loved him. To make it _work_.

And so it makes letting him go all the more agonizing.

Castiel knows that the time has come the moment he sees Dean’s beautiful black car, his pride and joy, come rolling up the hill. Following closely behind is a hearse, and what a familiar but heartbreaking sight. Castiel curls his fingers into the edge of the sign so hard that the metal creaks beneath his grip, and it takes everything that he has to keep his powers in check as the watches the Impala roll to a stop in the parking lot.

Sam gets out of the driver’s side of the Impala, dressed in a black suit. Even from here, Castiel can see that his eyes are red-rimmed, and his hands shake as he pockets the keys to the Impala—his now, surely. Dean would have wanted him to have it.

There are other cars coming up the hill after the hearse, but Castiel has no interest in them. Instead, his eyes are on the two black cars, leaning so far forward that he’s in danger of falling off the sign as he waits to see when and where Dean will emerge. Every second that he has left to see Dean, to spend time with him, he wants to make the most of. He’s always known that his time with Dean was finite, he just didn’t realize _how_ finite until now.

This is fucking terrifying, and it hurts so much, but he has to be as strong as he can be for the both of them.

And so he waits, with bated breath—

Until a second person gets out of the Impala, not bothering with opening the passenger door and instead just phasing right through it. He’s so familiar that it breaks Castiel’s heart, and yet he’s never seen Dean like this, with the same transparent, star-stuff essence that spirits are made of.

Dean straightens up, his head held high, then turns towards the cemetery.

Their eyes lock right away, Dean standing in the parking lot where Castiel is forbidden to go, and Castiel straining against the very outer reaches of his prison. Even from this distance, Castiel sees Dean smile, soft and a little bit sad, and his heart shatters impossibly more.

“ _Dean_ ,” he whispers, like he can’t help it, like it’s been forced out of his very being.

There are people gathering around the hearse now, no doubt preparing to move the coffin that holds Dean’s body, but neither of them are paying any attention. They have eyes only for each other, and the strength of Castiel’s feelings beats harder and stronger in his chest with every second that passes.

 _I love you, I love you, I love you_.

He slides down off the sign and lands on his feet on the ground, pressing as far as he can against the boundaries of where he is capable of going. It hurts, and when he winces with the pain, he can see concern flit across Dean’s face, but he doesn’t care. He needs to be close, as close as he can until Dean comes to him, and if that hurts him, then so be it.

There’s only so far that Dean can move without being pulled back to his body, and so they’re forced to wait, separated by a few tantalizing feet of open air as his coffin is removed from the hearse. Castiel knows he should speak, say something to Dean to bridge the gap between them, but he can’t. There’s a lump in his throat that chokes back his words, and so he can only stand there and absorb the sight of Dean, recording absolutely everything that he possibly can to memory before Dean has to pass over.

Finally, the coffin comes out of the hearse.

Dean takes a step forward, and then another, and another. Slowly, the distance between them is lessened, step by step, bit by bit, until he’s close enough to reach.

Still, Castiel can’t bring himself to. He’s dreamed of this moment for so long, of being able to actually _touch_ Dean, and now that it’s here… it’s so overwhelming. He feels a single tear overflow past his lashes and slip down his cheek, and watches as Dean’s gaze tracks it. He gives Castiel a slightly sad smile, then lifts up his hand, and—

And brushes away the tear.

Even that gentle graze of knuckles is enough to send lightning sparking across Castiel’s body, and his breath hitches. A touch, a _real_ touch. Just like he’s imagined, time and time again, and now it’s _really possible_.

“Hey, Cas,” Dean says softly, smiling that smile that will always melt Castiel’s heart.

In that moment, Castiel breaks.

He takes a step forward and falls into Dean’s embrace, wrapping his arms around Dean’s body and pressing his face against Dean’s shoulder. Dean is warm and solid beneath him, and _god_ , it feels incredible to actually _feel_ him. To be able to _hug_ him without his arms just phasing through his body, to feel the way that Dean’s hands settle on his back, solid and comforting and everything that Castiel has ever dreamed of.

 _If only it weren’t in these circumstances_.

“Hello, Dean,” he whispers against Dean’s shoulder, his voice choked with tears that are still threatening to spill over. Dean’s hug tightens, as though he never wants to let Castiel go.

It’s a feeling he knows well.

“Feels so good to be able to touch you,” Dean says, his voice quiet, and Castiel can feel his thumb rubbing gentle circles against his back. God, he can’t describe how good it feels to be touched like this.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Castiel breathes. “To be able to touch you. To hug you. I—I dreamed about it so many times, but I never really _wanted_ it to happen, because I knew that would mean you would have to…”

He can’t say it. Dean is standing here in front of him, a spirit, and Castiel still can’t say it. His heart has never ached this badly, not in all his years of existence.

One hundred and seventy-two years and sixteen days. It doesn’t feel like his birthday party was just over two weeks ago. How happy and carefree he’d been, on that day.

And that’s all it takes.

The dam breaks, and all of a sudden he’s sobbing into Dean’s shoulder, holding onto him like Dean is the one thing keeping him together as he just lets it all out. “Hey, hey,” Dean murmurs, one hand coming up to comb gently through Castiel’s hair. “I’m here, okay? I’m with you. I’m alright, Cas.”

Except he’s not. He’s going to _leave_ , and Castiel will never see him again, and he’ll have to live the rest of his existence knowing that Dean never found out just how much he loved him.

But out of all of those…

There’s one thing that he can change.

Castiel pulls back, gently tugging Dean a few steps into the cemetery so that he can focus on what he wants to say without the insistent pressure of the boundary distracting him. His arms fall to his sides, fingers curling into fists, and he makes sure he looks Dean in the eyes, trying to convey the sheer depth of his sincerity and the _importance_ of this conversation.

“Dean, there’s something I need to tell you.”

Dean’s eyebrows raise, and even though there’s sadness and a touch of confusion in his expression, he still makes an effort to smile. “I dunno what’s so important that you have to tell me, but if it’s about how you’re a ghost,” he jokes, “I’ve got some bad news for you.”

Damn it, there’s the idiot he fell in love with. Despite his own grief, Castiel levels a dry look at Dean—as unimpressed as he can make it considering the corners of his mouth are twitching up.

“It’s not that,” he says quietly, and _god_ , it’s taking all his courage to even form his thoughts into words, let alone have them balancing right on the tip of his tongue.

He takes a deep breath, then exhales. _Here goes… well, everything_.

“Dean, I—”

Castiel starts, but he doesn’t get much further, because as soon at the words begin to leave his mouth, Dean’s expression crumples, and he takes a step back.

Away from Castiel.

“Fuck, Cas, I’m sorry,” Dean grits out—he looks pained, and his hands come up to press against his chest as though there’s some great weight on it. “I can’t… I can’t stay here.”

It takes a second for Castiel to realize that the funeral procession has passed them, and that Dean’s coffin is being carried up the hill, towards the sycamore tree that stands watch over Mary Winchester’s grave. Of course Dean can’t stand here, talking to Castiel, while that invisible tether is trying to rein him back in.

“Of course,” he says quickly, closing the distance between them once more. Getting to touch Dean still feels like a dream, and he almost second-guesses himself as he does it, so conditioned to not even try by now.

But, once again, his hands land solidly on Dean’s shoulders, and he gives them a gentle squeeze. “Come on,” he tells Dean, his voice soft. Every word feels like it’s breaking his heart even more. “Let’s join them up on the hill.”

He guides Dean gently with a hand on his back as they walk, keeping an eye on him until they get a little more in range, and his discomfort seems to ease. “Fuck,” Dean mutters, “that does not feel good. I get why you never tried to leave the cemetery.”

Castiel exhales—a quick, mirthless laugh. “Oh, I tried. I tried for a long time. But eventually I gave up. I submitted to the fact that my existence was linked to this place, and that I would be alone, and that would never ever change.”

Dean pauses halfway up the slope and turns to face Castiel, his brows furrowed in concern. “That’s really how you felt?” he asks, and honestly, the question surprises Castiel a little.

“Wouldn’t you, if you were trapped in the same spot with hardly anyone to talk to for over a hundred years?”

A heavy silence stretches about between them for a few moments as Dean thinks it over, then eventually seems to concede. “I guess you’re right,” he says quietly. “I never really thought about it like that. I guess I kinda forgot that you didn’t have anyone to talk to before me.”

And that’s the thing.

“No,” Castiel agrees. “I didn’t.” _Here it comes. Hold it together, Castiel_. “And that… that’s what I have to tell you, Dean.”

Dean goes very still, watching Castiel from where he stands, a few feet up the slope. Past him, Castiel can see the group of mourners standing by Dean’s coffin, and he knows they’re running out of time. Once Dean’s body is buried, he’ll have no choice—he’ll have to help him cross over.

“What is it?” Dean prompts him gently, and holy shit, he’s really going to say it. Everything he’s been bottling up over the past few years, everything he feels but has never let himself admit out loud, let alone to Dean’s face…

It’s all going to come out.

“I’m in love with you,” he says, and in that moment, it feels as though the world stops turning. All he can focus on is Dean’s face, all he can see is the way his eyes widen, his lips part, his chest hitches with his inhale.

But Castiel isn’t ready for Dean’s response, whatever it may be, and so he barrels onwards.

“I don’t know when I fell in love with you, but I’ve been in love with you for a long time. You’re funny, and kind, and you’ve always gone out of your way to visit me like no one else ever has. You make me laugh and you bring me gifts, and I know that even if everyone else in the world could see me, I would still choose you. I would still _love_ you. And I know that… I know that it’s futile, because I will be stuck here for as long as I can imagine, and you have a better existence waiting for you somewhere out there, but I can’t help it. You are the _first_ person I have ever loved, and… and you will be the _only_ person I ever love.”

He’s crying. He’s not sure when he started crying again, but the tears are fresh, rolling wetly down his cheeks. Everything is out in the open now, because he has no other choice. This is the last time he will ever see the man that he loves.

Around them, the trees start to sway, bending beneath the grief in Castiel’s power as it roils around them—

But Dean doesn’t focus on any of that. Doesn’t even _look_. He just keeps his eyes on Castiel’s, his gaze soft. “Oh, Cas,” he says quietly, and that—that’s somehow worse than any response Castiel could have imagined.

Because it sounds like _pity_.

“Don’t,” he says, more harshly than he’d intended to. He holds his hands up, putting a barrier between them, as the invisible wind picks up, tugging at their hair and pulling against their clothing. “Just don’t, okay? I don’t need to hear you tell me you don’t feel the same way—I already know that. But I just… I had to get it off my chest. And now you can cross over.”

Castiel’s heart feels as though it’s shattered into pieces on the ground as he holds his hand out into the space between them, palm up. It’s an offering, but not the one he wishes it was.

This offering is one that’s going to remove Dean from his life forever, and _god_ it hurts so bad.

But this is Castiel’s purpose. He’d known this was coming, and now that it’s here, he has to be strong. As much as he wishes he could look away, and just let it _happen_ , he can’t.

Dean opens and closes his mouth for a second, then shakes his head. There’s the tiniest hint of a smile playing at the edge of his lips, and Castiel doesn’t understand it. Is he happy to be leaving? The thought resonates bitterly within his chest, and he tries to resist the urge to close his hand, to pull away and let himself disappear.

Before he can react, though, Dean takes a step forward, into Castiel’s personal space. The wind of his powers picks up, more and more and more—

And then Dean reaches out, and instead of taking his hand, he gently wraps his fingers around Castiel’s wrist. His lips curl upwards, into that wonderfully soft smile that Castiel is so familiar with.

“I’m not going anywhere, Cas,” he says. His other hand comes up, curving against Castiel’s jaw, and Castiel can only stand there in shock as Dean leans in, tilts his head just a little to the side, and kisses him.

Everything around them goes quiet. Still.

In over a hundred years, Castiel has only ever been touched by the spirits he’s helped.

It’s been almost a hundred and fifty years since he’s been kissed.

And now, here he is—standing in the middle of his cemetery with Dean’s lips on his, getting to experience the one thing he thought he’d never again be lucky enough to have, let alone with the man he loves.

 _This can’t be real_ , he thinks, and then he reaches up and wraps his arms around Dean’s neck, pulling him closer, because he can’t overthink this moment. All he can do is _be_.

Dean’s lips move against his, soft and slow as everything that cannot be said out loud passes between them. All their emotions, their thoughts, their love, the things that are impossible to voice…

Castiel can feel them, resonating deep within his soul.

They kiss until they’re drunk on it, until it feels like the whole world has fallen away from them, and then they separate so gently that Castiel swears he can still feel the brush of Dean’s lips against his. Dean’s thumb brushes over his cheekbone, and every touch from him feels like a revelation.

Castiel hopes they will never _stop_ feeling like tiny revelations, each and every one of them.

But that thought brings him back to the present—to Dean, and his words, and the situation that they’re found themselves in. He pulls back, just a little, enough that he can see Dean’s face.

“What did you mean, you’re not going anywhere?” he asks. His voice is rough, cracking brokenly around the syllables.

But Dean just grins, that charming, roguish grin of his that Castiel had fallen in love with so long ago. “I don’t have to cross over,” he says, shrugging one shoulder as though it’s the simplest thing in the world. “Sure, I would’ve liked to be alive for longer, but now that I don’t get a choice about that… I want to have _this_ choice. I want to decide what I do for the rest of my existence, and _this_ is my decision.”

He’s going to _stay_.

In all of Castiel’s years as a grim, he’s never met anyone who’s chosen to stay. It’s his purpose, after all; convincing people to cross over into whatever afterlife awaits, so that they don’t become endlessly trapped here like him.

But that’s what Dean is choosing. To stay _here_ , in this limbo, without ever knowing what awaits on the other side.

And all because of Castiel.

“Dean, you—you can’t,” he says, sliding his hands down until they’re curled against Dean’s chest. He wants to push him away, to tell him to _think_ about his decision, but he doesn’t have the strength. Instead, he just whispers, “You’ll be trapped here. Like me. Like the spirits you’ve hunted. Forever.”

Dean just shakes his head, and the look in his eyes is the one of stubborn determination that Castiel knows so damn well. “But I’m not like you,” he insists. “I’m not like the other spirits. I know what I want, Cas, and that’s why I’m choosing to stay.”

It doesn’t make sense. Here he is, with access to everything that Castiel has yearned for his entire existence—closure, an afterlife, the chance to rest after all this time.

“But why?” he asks, desperate to understand how Dean could just… give that all up.

Dean’s eyebrows crease in a tiny frown, just for a moment. “You really…” he starts, then shakes his head. “And I thought I was the dense one. You’re lucky you’re cute, Cas, ‘cause sometimes you’re a bit of an idiot.”

Castiel opens his mouth to protest, but Dean hushes him, and so he closes it again and waits for the rest of what he has to say—not that that means, he’ll be forgetting the idiot comment, though, but now is not the time. Instead, he just lets himself listen.

Dean takes a deep breath, seeming to gather himself, then exhales it again. “I’m staying because I would much rather spend limbo with you than pass over to some unknown where… well, where I don’t have you.”

He pauses, gaze flicking between Castiel’s eyes, then laughs when Castiel doesn’t respond immediately—a soft, disbelieving, fond little chuckle. “Fuck, I really do have to spell it out, huh? I’m staying because I love you, Cas. Because I’m _in_ love with you. Everything you said before, that’s exactly how I feel. _That’s_ why I’m choosing to stay.”

And it all falls into place.

Yes, Dean has access to everything Castiel has ever wanted—

Except for one thing.

 _Love_.

And when it comes down to it, isn’t that what truly matters the most?

“Oh,” Castiel says, gently, quietly. Because that’s really all he can say right now.

Luckily, Dean gets it. He’s more than happy to just wrap his arms around Castiel and hold him while he processes everything—Dean isn’t leaving, Dean loves him back, and he won’t be _alone_ any more. Castiel inhales, a single, shuddering breath… and then lets it all out.

For a long time, they just stand together on the hill as the sun begins to set—the man who gave everything for love, and the grim of Lawrence Memorial Cemetery, who will never be lonely again.


	9. 0-0-15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well. Here we are.
> 
> I have loved writing this story with every fibre of my being. It has let me explore so much of my own style and my own capabilities, and I am so immensely proud of what I have been able to create. More than that, though, I am so incredibly thankful for each and every one of you who have joined me on this journey, whether you have been reading it as a WIP or are now exploring this little universe as a finished product. You guys inspire me and encourage me and I am so beyond excited to share the end of this fic with you all. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
> 
> Lastly, thank you to everyone who has helped and encouraged me along the way, but the biggest thank you goesto my wonderful beta, [captainhaterade](https://captainhaterade.tumblr.com/). cap, you make my writing and my stories better, and without you, this story would not look the same as it does, in so many ways. 
> 
> I really hope you guys like this final chapter, and that you carry a piece of these boys in your hearts after reading it, just as I will.  
> Enjoy <3

**0-0-15**

Sam visits Dean’s grave every day.

Most of the time, he just sits there, beside Dean’s gravestone. He’ll look out at the sky, or up at the sycamore tree, or sometimes even just have his eyes closed in a moment of reflection.

Sometimes, though… he talks.

He talks about anything and everything, but all of it directed at Dean, as though he’s still here. As though he’s sitting right next to Sam.

Which, a lot of the time, he is.

When Dean isn’t getting used to being able to touch Castiel (still a wonderful novelty, and Castiel doesn’t think that will ever wear off), or adjusting to life as a newly-minted spirit, he’s spending time with Sam. Whenever Sam is at the cemetery, Dean is never far away, and today, he’s lounging on the grass beside his own grave, fingers interlaced behind his head as he looks up at the sky.

Castiel always feels as though these are private moments, as much as Dean tells him _it’s okay_ , and that _it’s nice to have you nearby_ , he does try to find things to do to give the brothers some time alone. He works on growing a sapling planted a few graves over while Sam talks into the air and Dean, occasionally, responds.

The sapling has only managed to grow an inch or so when Castiel feels the touch of a hand on his shoulder. He only just manages to refrain from jumping—being able to be touched so regularly is still something that he’s getting used to, but it’s a surprise that is more than welcome.

“How are you doing?” he asks as he lets his power fade away from his fingertips, turning away from the sapling and looking up at Dean.

There’s a general air of distress about Dean—one that he’s clearly trying to mask if the forced smile on his face is anything to go by—but Castiel knows him too well to be fooled. Immediately, he stands up, putting his hand on Dean’s where it rests on his shoulder and gently twining their fingers together. “Dean? What’s wrong?”

Dean closes his eyes for a moment, then exhales a shaky breath and looks over to where Sam is still sitting beside his grave. He has his head in his hands, and his large frame is somewhat hunched, as though he’s trying his best to curl in on himself.

“He’s so sad,” Dean says quietly, and the tone in his voice makes Castiel’s heart _ache_. “I just… wish there was some kind of way to let him know that I’m okay. That I’m here, and I’m with you, and I’m happy.” He snorts, soft and bitter. “Another hundred years and I might be able to communicate with him through my powers, like how you can move shit, but… I don’t have that kind of time.”

Well. Dean might not have the time to curate his powers like that, but Castiel?

He’s more than capable.

He lets himself smile, gentle and reassuring, and leans in to press a quick kiss to Dean’s cheek. “Well, then, my powers are at your disposal. If there’s a message you want to send to Sam, I can do it—though nothing too long, otherwise I’ll be taking a nap for the next week, and you’ll be left in charge of helping people cross over,” he jokes.

That comment seems to make Dean pause, almost as though he forgets his own grief for a moment. “Wait, I can do that?” he asks, his eyes wide. “Help people out, like you do? But… I don’t know how.”

Castiel just shrugs. “I don’t see why not. You’re kind of like a grim, now. And besides, I didn’t know what I was doing when I started, either. If it does come down to it, you’ll be fine.”

Dean stares at him for a few more moments, processing this new information and trying to fit it into his reshaped worldview, then shakes himself out of his thoughts. “Well,” he says, shaking his head, “that’s something to freak out about later. For now, can we talk to Sam? Before he goes home for the night? I’m worried about him, man.”

Sam’s beard has gotten longer and longer, and he looks so despondent, each time he visits. It must be so hard, losing your mother and brother and having a father so incredibly estranged that he didn’t even come to his own son’s funeral. Anything Castiel can do to help Sam, he’s more than happy to give it a try.

They make their way over to where he’s sitting still, and Castiel kneels down in front of him. “Is there a specific message you want me to give him?” he asks, looking up at Dean, who seems deep in thought.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says after a few seconds, his face lighting up and lips curving into a grin. “Can you clear out a little space to write? It doesn’t have to be very much.”

To _write_? Castiel gives Dean a slightly skeptical look, but follows his suggestion anyway. There’s a clear patch of earth by Sam’s feet that he decides to use, but to make sure that Sam actually sees the message, first he has to get his attention.

Touching living people doesn’t always work, since they just pass his presence off as an odd chill or strange sensation, but for someone who’s grown up hunting ghosts…

“Holy fuck,” Sam yelps, as Castiel’s hand phases through his shin. It’s not a pleasant feeling, especially not when done slowly and deliberately like Castiel had just done, and behind him, Castiel hears Dean snort. “Quiet,” he says gently over his shoulder, because Sam is already speaking.

“Cas?” he asks, looking around at the vague area where Castiel is kneeling. _Close enough_. “Is that you? Did Dean—did he make it? Did he pass over? Or is he still here, the stubborn son of a bitch? What happened?”

“You have a lot of questions,” Castiel mutters to himself, amused. It’s only reasonable, but at the same time, he’s not a damn Ouija board. Instead, he smooths out the earth by Sam’s feet with his palm, focusing his powers on flattening it into a surface he can trace letters into. “Is that big enough?” he checks with Dean, who crouches down beside him, mentally spacing out the letters of whatever he wants to write.

“Perfect,” he declares, grinning over at Castiel. “Okay, the word I want you to write is… _bitch_.”

Castiel stares at Dean, then down at the dirt patch, then at Dean again.

“ _Bitch_ ,” he says slowly, because surely he misheard Dean. Of all the things Dean could possibly want him to write to signal to his brother that he’s here… _bitch?_

“Trust me.” Dean’s laughing now, no doubt at the befuddled expression on Castiel’s face. “He’ll get it, okay? It’ll make sense.”

Castiel tries not to be skeptical, but some of it must still show on his face, because Dean’s grin only widens. “If you’re sure,” he mutters, returning his attention to the ground. Slowly, he starts to write, focusing on moving the dirt for each letter he traces out.

_B._

_I._

_T._

“Oh my god,” Sam says, his eyes widening. Behind him, Castiel hears Dean start cracking up.

He simply rolls his eyes, amused, and finishes the word.

 _BITCH_.

When Castiel looks back up, he’s not sure if Sam is laughing or crying. His hands are pressed against his mouth, and there are tears running down his cheeks, but the crinkle of his eyes and the shake of his shoulders suggest that whatever the meaning behind this word, it’s enough to make him laugh through his grief.

“Oh, shit,” Sam says, in a half-sob, half-chuckle. “You really are here, Dean, holy fuck. You wouldn’t have enough power yet to do that, though—did you really make Cas write that for you?”

“Yes,” both Castiel and Dean say at the same time—Castiel’s tone is one of amused defeat, whereas Dean’s is proud and unashamed. They share a look, and when Dean winks, Castiel can only shake his head fondly.

From then on, whenever Sam comes to visit, he talks to Dean like he’s there, because he knows that he is. And seeing the effect that has on Dean…

It makes Castiel happier than he could possibly describe.

**0-2-4**

When Dean comes to Castiel and tells him he’s not allowed to go up by the church for the next few days, Castiel’s interest is immediately piqued.

Dean is usually terrible at keeping secrets, but this is one he won’t give up under any circumstances, not even when Castiel prods and pokes and tries his best to catch him off guard. He simply seals his lips and shakes his head, with that spark in his eyes that means Castiel is going to like whatever is going on.

And so he resolves not to spoil the surprise for himself, and tries to ignore the handful of workers he sees heading up that way over the next couple of days, instead hanging around the rest of the cemetery and trying to forget that there are secrets (however good) being kept from him. If it were possible to die a second time over out of sheer curiosity, Castiel would have achieved it, but he forces himself to trust Dean and to wait.

And then, early one morning, Dean disappears for a little bit with a, “Don’t follow me, Cas, I’ll come find you when it’s ready,” and a teasing kiss that lingers on Castiel’s lips even after he’s gone.

Being able to kiss Dean is still so surreal.

It must be around noon when Dean comes to find Castiel where he’s sitting by the gazebo, idly flicking through a book he’d found last week on one on the benches. His steps are slow, and there are bags under his eyes, but despite clear exhaustion (what has he been up to?), there’s a wide smile on his face and a brightness in his eyes.

“Okay,” he breathes, flopping down onto the bench next to Castiel. “It’s ready.”

Immediately, Castiel’s excitement ramps up. He sets his book aside—carefully, of course—and hops up off the bench, ready to go check out his surprise.

“Already?” Dean groans. “I just sat down!”

But when Castiel looks over, the corners of Dean’s lips are turned up into a smile, clearly teasing. Cas levels a fond glare at him.

“Very funny,” he teases with a shake of his head. “Come _on_ , Dean. You and Sam have been making me wait for long enough, I want to finally see what you two have been planning.”

Dean’s gaze softens, and he gets up from the bench, leaning in close to press a quick kiss to Castiel’s cheek that just about stops his brain. “Alright, mister impatient. Let’s go check it out, then.”

Side by side, they make their way up towards the church, Dean half a step ahead and unable to contain the excited bounce in his step. Castiel is suddenly taken back to the day he’d revealed his daffodil garden to Dean, hardly able to hide his own excitement. If he’d ever considered that the tables would be turned like this…

He can’t help but smile to himself, so incredibly happy _already_.

And then they turn the corner of the church, and as Castiel’s eyes fall on his own grave, he stops in his tracks, mouth falling open in shock.

The asphodel plant is still there, the one that Dean had planted so long ago, but everything else is different. There’s a bench at the end of Castiel’s grave, a few feet away from the asphodel, one that is solid and wooden and welcoming. The old, cracked headstone that had been so sparsely decorated is gone, and in his place is a new headstone, made of the same stone as Dean’s.

Castiel presses his hands over his mouth and takes a few steps closer, until he can clearly make out the inscription on his new headstone.

_Here lies Castiel Novak_

_9/18/1835 – 5/18/1862_

_A beacon of hope, a reservoir of strength, a light in the darkness._

_Beloved by Dean_

“Dean,” he chokes out, his voice thick with tears. “I—this is what you two were working on?”

Castiel feels Dean step up beside him, and leans into the arm that settles comfortingly around his shoulders.

“Yeah,” Dean murmurs, with a smile in his voice. “Me ‘n Sam had been talking about it, about getting you a headstone that better describes who you are and… well, what you mean to me. He changed the engraving on my headstone as well once he realized I’d decided to stay here with you, the smart kid. So now we’re basically ghost-married.” Dean grins, but there’s an undertone of worry to it. He fidgets, just slightly, then adds, “I hope it’s okay. I should’ve asked before getting rid of the old headstone, but—”

Castiel shuts him up with a kiss, one that he hopes conveys the sheer depth of his love and his gratitude without actually saying it. He doesn’t trust his tears not to spill over, after all, bur when Dean smiles into the kiss and wraps his arms tightly around Castiel, he gathers that Dean has understood the message.

“Good,” Dean says quietly when they separate, a smile curling his lips. “Can I show you one more thing?”

Castiel can only nod, too overwhelmed to put any of his thoughts into words. How can Dean possibly have _more_ to show him? How can anything be better than the beautiful message that will forever be etched onto his headstone?

With gentle hands, Dean guides Castiel over to the grave. At the foot stands the asphodel, but as they kneel down beside the grave, Castiel catches sight of a tiny sprout right in the middle of his grave, one that definitely had not been there the last time he’d visited.

Dean leans his shoulder against Castiel’s, and suddenly, his exhaustion makes sense.

“Dean,” Castiel says quietly, his chest tight with the strength of his emotions, “did you… did you make that?”

When he looks over, Dean is just watching him, this pleased little smile curling his lips. “Maybe,” he replies with a nonchalant shrug that doesn’t reflect the pride emanating from him in the slightest. “Wanna grow it and see what it is?”

For Dean to have put all of his limited energy into creating a tiny little sprout from nothing, just for Castiel… he knows how hard that is, considering Dean has only been a spirit for a few months, and so the weight of the gift is not lost on him.

His heart in his throat, Castiel reaches a hand out towards the small green shoot, focuses his powers, and wills it to grow.

Slowly, they watch as it sprouts upward and outward, leaves slowly unfurling and the stems growing taller and taller until finally, it seems to reach its peak. At the very top of each stem, a tiny purple bud forms, and Castiel keeps urging the plant to grow until each bud has blossomed in a small, purple, globe-like amaranth flower.

When it’s done, and the plant has nothing left in it to give, he sits back on his heels and just _looks_ at it.

 _Dean did this for me. He_ made _this for me, just like the asphodel, but… in an entirely new way_.

“Do you like it?” Dean prompts gently, after Castiel has been silent for a little while.

_Do I like it?_

Castiel turns toward Dean, trying to put his thoughts, his _gratitude_ , into words. When he finds that he can’t, he leans forward and kisses Dean again, then presses their foreheads together. “I love it,” he says simply, and he can hear that his voice is thick with happiness, because he _is_. “And I love you.”

Dean just smiles, that bright, wide smile that will never fail to light up Castiel’s world, not now, and not in a hundred years.

“Love you too, Cas.”

**1-0-0**

Castiel only realizes that it’s been a year since Dean died when Sam comes to visit.

They don’t keep track of how much time has passed, both because of the logistical difficulties of such an act, but also because all the days just seem to meld together. Before, they had dragged, stopped and started and felt eternally endless with the sheer weight of Castiel’s loneliness, but now…

Now, time doesn’t really matter, because he has _Dean_.

Even so, it’s a bit of a shock when they realize that it’s been a year. Sam’s visit is a total surprise, and when Dean catches sight of him across the cemetery, walking through the gates with a brown-haired woman beside him, his eyes light up.

He’s gone in an instant, blinking away from Castiel’s side—an interesting decision, considering how his blinking practice has been going, and Castiel can’t help but laugh as he reappears a good thirty feet to Sam’s right. He’s still getting the hang of his landings.

“Shut up, Cas!” Dean shouts, but there’s laughter in his voice, as well. He concentrates, then disappears again, and this time, reappears right next to Sam. Castiel follows suit with a mere thought, appearing beside Dean with a pointedly bored yawn.

Dean elbows him in the side, and the yawn dissolves into the teasing grin that Castiel had been hiding. “Show off,” Dean mutters, and then the two of them stop bickering and listen to what Sam is saying.

“So… yeah. This is where Dean is buried. He’s still here, too—his spirit, I mean. I know it sounds crazy, but…” Sam rubs the back of his neck, while the woman just looks at him, one eyebrow raised and an amused smile on her face. “Look, I’m sure he’ll prove it at some point today.” He pitches his voice a little louder— _bold of him to assume that Dean wasn’t already right here,_ Castiel thinks with amusement. “Won’t you, Dean?”

When Castiel glances over, Dean has a thoughtful look on his face, as though he’s considering his reaction. “Should I, Cas?” he asks with a grin, clearly wondering whether it would be funnier to just pretend that he’s not here. He must make up his mind, though, because as they pass under the tall oak tree beside the main path, Dean pokes his tongue out in concentration and focuses on one of the branches overhead.

“So Dean, if you’re listening, this is Eileen. I, uh… I guess I wanted you to meet—"

A single acorn drops from the branch, squarely onto Sam’s head. Castiel snorts, Eileen chuckles, and Dean laughs out loud, clearly satisfied with his own antics.

“Ow! Jerk,” Sam complains as he rubs his head, but there’s a fondness to it, and also a relief—he’s not crazy, Dean is still here, he hasn’t lost his brother forever.

“Love you too, bitch,” Dean retorts, and his grin has faded into softness. Side by side, the four of them continue to walk deeper into the cemetery, and Castiel has never been so grateful for his found family.

**5-2-21**

When they come to visit her grandpa’s grave, Hannah wastes no time in wandering off from her family to do some exploring.

She’s always been intrigued by cemeteries—there are so many people buried here, each with their own lives, their own stories. If she can catch just a glimpse of that by reading their headstones, and then try to figure out what their life was like while they were alive… well, it’s a game she could play all day long.

She starts by the entrance, wandering between the graves and making notes on inscriptions that seem particularly interesting to her, her notebook almost constantly held tight to her chest. There’s a war veteran buried by the path, a mother and son beneath the old sycamore tree, a young boy not far along who—once she struggles through the math—Hannah works out couldn’t have been much older than her when he died.

Some headstones are old, and some are new, all with varying detail and inscriptions, but the one that truly catches her interest is one she doesn’t find until she’s almost made her way through the whole cemetery.

She just happens to be checking out the old church when she finds it, tucked away around the back. It’s all by itself out here, and she’d almost expected it to be wild and overgrown, but it’s not. The plot is neatly weeded, the plants clearly taken care of, and the headstone looks like it’s only a few years old.

Her interest piqued, Hannah makes her way over to the bench near the end of the grave and flops onto it, her feet tired from walking all day. When he goes to set her notebook down on the wood, she notices a small, inscribed plaque in the middle of the bench.

_A place to sit, and talk, and be watched over._

Just that; short and simple.

Hannah looks down at it for a few more moments, then scribbles a note about it in her notebook before turning her attention to the grave’s headstone.

She reads the words on it, copying down the short, sweet tribute purely because of how lovely it sounds, but when her gaze falls on the last line, she frowns, then rereads the headstone’s name again.

“Cas… tee… el?”

Hannah flips back a few pages, scanning her own handwriting until she finds it.

_Beloved of Castiel._

It had been such a strange name that she couldn’t resist noting it down, and now, to find it here, on this gravestone…

“Weird,” she mutters to herself, then stands up and heads back to the area where she remembers the other grave being.

Sure enough, the name is exactly the same—except now, she realizes, that the person _this_ headstone belongs to… is named _Dean_.

Which makes sense, if they were in love and wanted to be buried in the same cemetery…

Except that Dean had lived a hundred and fifty years after Castiel.

For a long time, Hannah just looks between the grave and her notebook, trying to figure out some kind of explanation. In the end, she stands there for a good ten minutes, until her mom comes to find her—when she asks what Hannah has been looking at, she just closes her notebook and shrugs.

Hannah leaves with her family, bouncing off after her parents, but not without one last look at Dean Winchester’s grave.

It’s something that she’s going to be thinking about for the rest of her life, she knows, but…

Some mysteries are never meant to be solved.

**16-10-4**

Castiel never expected his and Dean’s existence to be easy, and it’s not.

They love each other, that much is still clear, even so many years after Dean had decided to stay. But for someone who grew up on the road, and is used to having his freedom and being able to travel wherever he wants at any given time…

Sometimes Dean does not deal with his isolation well.

Tonight, the moon is high, the cemetery bathed in shadows and silver light, and Castiel is wandering the pathways alone. There’s always a pang in his chest whenever Dean gets like this, the fear of being alone once more rearing its head, and he has to force himself to stay calm.

 _Dean chose me, he loves me. This existence is hard, and sometimes I need to give him space_.

But it doesn’t always stop the sick feeling that settles in his stomach.

After an hour of aimless walking, unable to settle, he finds Dean by the entrance to the cemetery. He’s sitting up on top of the sign, legs dangling down and fingers curled over the edge, in the same spot Castiel had been on that day.

Dean must sense Castiel’s presence, because he turns his head just slightly when he walks up, but otherwise, he doesn’t move. Just keeps looking outwards—toward the road, toward the town, toward the great, wide expanse of the world where they will never again be able to go.

Castiel knows the feeling of Dean’s longing, but his has long since settled. He doesn’t _remember_ what it’s like to be out there in the world, and civilization has moved on without him.

Dean, though…

Dean hasn’t reached that stage yet. And until he does, his longing feels like a wedge that is splitting them apart, inch by inch.

With all his heart, Castiel wishes that he had the power to fix how Dean is feeling in times like these, but he doesn’t. All he can do is be there for Dean, if ever he wants to talk about it, and even if he doesn’t

He looks up at Dean, at his silvered outline against the stars, then climbs up to sit beside him. They don’t touch, don’t speak—just sit, looking out at the world, for a very long time.

Eventually, Dean shifts, looking down at his feet. Castiel glances over at him, waiting, patient.

“I’m sorry,” he says, so quietly that it’s barely a breath on the wind, and Castiel’s heart aches.

He knows what it means, and he wishes that Dean wouldn’t feel so guilty about a longing that is only human.

“I know,” he tells Dean gently, then adds, his voice soft and quiet, “I love you.”

For the first time tonight, the corner of Dean’s mouth curves up—just the shadow of a smile, but a smile nonetheless.

“I know,” he echoes, and together, they sit and watch the sun rise.

**20-3-16**

It’s a spring morning, green shoots pushing up from the ground and birds singing beautiful melodies overhead, when Castiel meets the person who will change his existence forever.

They get visitors to the cemetery every day, and so Castiel has gotten more than used to wandering past them, sometimes watching out of idle curiosity but mostly keeping to himself. It’s not like they can see him, after all.

But as Castiel makes his way along the path towards the sycamore tree, one man stands out. He’s slightly off to the side, away from any other groups, sitting on a bench by himself. He seems older, his dark hair slicked back, legs crossed at the knee. There’s a cane resting against the bench beside him, and his suit, from what Castiel knows of suits, is handsome and well-made.

Beyond his appearance, there’s something _about_ him. Something that draws attention, something that says, _this man is not like the others_.

He observes the world with eyes that must have seen so much, a patient weight to his gaze that feels ever-so-slightly familiar. Castiel stands in the middle of the path and watches him, curious.

And then the man’s head turns, his gaze shifts, and all of a sudden, he’s looking directly into Castiel’s eyes.

It takes Castiel so strongly by surprise that he takes a step back, unable to think, unable to _process_. This man doesn’t seem to be a spirit, he doesn’t look the same as any of the other spirits Castiel has met, but he can _see him_.

“What the fuck,” he breathes, and he swears the corner of the man’s lips tick up.

The man reaches out and pats the bench beside him, just once, then returns his hand to his lap. An invitation.

The only living person who’s ever been able to see him is Dean—but now, for this man to be so clearly interacting with him? Castiel doesn’t know what to think. All he knows is right now, if he still had a working heart, it would be _pounding_ away in his chest.

Slowly, he steps forward, one foot after another, skittish and wary and totally unable to believe that he’s interacting with someone who seems to be actually alive. By the time he finds himself standing by the bench, looking down at the man, his mind is such a frazzled mess that he doesn’t know _what_ to think any more.

“Sit, Castiel.”

His voice is deep and quiet and carries in it a weight that Castiel immediately knows he will never be able to understand. He has seen centuries, but this man has seen millennia, and Castiel is nothing but a child to him.

He sits.

The man hums quietly, then looks out over the grounds once more. This close, Castiel can feel the power he exudes, calm but so strong under the surface. It’s otherworldly. _Ancient_.

For a few long minutes, they just sit, looking out at Castiel’s domain. Finally, the man speaks once more.

“I have heard a lot about you, Castiel.”

Castiel glances over at him, trying to discern any kind of emotion from the severe lines of his face, but he finds nothing. “You’ve heard about me?” he asks, brows furrowed. “Why? How?”

The man pauses before he responds—Castiel can’t tell if he’s irritated or amused. “The people who come to my domain have spoken of you for a long time. First, it was the grim who seemed so very lonely but was always kind to his spirits. Not a single spirit buried in this cemetery has ever refused to cross over.”

And then he turns his gaze on Castiel, who finds himself fixed into place by those eyes, so dark, so cold.

“But now… Now I hear that this cemetery has gained a second grim.”

Castiel can’t move, can only sit there as his mind whirls, putting together all the pieces of the puzzle. His eyes fall to the man’s lap, his hands resting neatly on top of each other. On one of his fingers sits a solid silver ring, inset with a white stone, and Castiel swallows.

“You’re…”

He can’t finish it, too overwhelmed by the reality of it if he speaks this man’s name out into the world, but it doesn’t matter. The man’s expression shifts almost imperceptibly, but it’s enough to show that he knows what Castiel is thinking, and that his guess is correct.

 _Death_.

“Why are you here?” Castiel asks him, lips forming around cracked syllables.

Death exhales through his nose, long and slow, then looks back out over the cemetery. “I don’t tell people this often,” he muses. “Once or twice a millennium, perhaps. But you have been of great service to me, and that you could form such a strong bond with a living person that they would choose to stay with you instead of continuing to the afterlife… it is truly commendable. As such, it seems to me that with two grims presiding over this cemetery, there is no need for you both to be here.”

Castiel feels something in his chest lurch, as though his whole world has been tilted on its axis.

“You’re letting Dean leave?” he asks, his eyes wide. Dean is the one who aches for the outside world, who has family out there still, and so it would make sense for Death to grant him that freedom while Castiel remains to tend to the cemetery.

God, he wants Dean to be able to leave so badly, but at the same time, he’s terrified of it.

Death regards him for a moment with those soul-piercing eyes, then gives a minute shake of his head.

“No, Castiel. I’m letting you _both_ leave.”

And _that_ …

There are no words to describe how that feels.

Luckily, Death lets Castiel have time to internally process this information, continuing on while Castiel tries to come to terms with the realization that after over a hundred and fifty years confined to this cemetery, he will finally be able to leave its grounds.

“This is not an opportunity to shirk your duties,” Death clarifies. “You have caught me on a good day, a day in which I was curious to meet this grim who has been held in such high regard, but don’t forget that what I have bestowed, I can again revoke. You will be notified when there is a spirit here who requires your aid, but otherwise… the world is yours.”

And with that, he stands, picks up his cane, and walks away.

Castiel watches him go, all the way out through the front gates. There’s a white car in the parking lot, old and sleek and beautiful. _Dean would like that car_ , Castiel thinks dazedly, as Death makes his way over to it.

He blinks, and the next moment, both Death and the car are gone.

Castiel sits on the bench and stares at the space he disappeared from, still trying to wrap his head around everything. He’s still sitting in exactly the same spot when Dean finds him some thirty minutes later.

“Cas!” Dean calls, breathless and happy, and holy shit, _he doesn’t know yet_. “I finished repairing the tiles on the gazebo. Fuck, that was hard work.”

He makes his way over, but when Castiel can barely turn to look at him, Dean must realize that something is up. “Cas?” he asks, confusion and worry coloring his voice as he takes a seat on the bench beside Castiel. “What’s wrong?”

Castiel takes a deep breath, then exhales it. How does one even go about explaining everything that just happened?

“I met Death,” he says simply, and can’t help but smile at the near-comical way that Dean’s eyes widen.

“Death?” Dean splutters, turning so that he’s fully facing Castiel. “As in… four horsemen, supernatural entity, older-than-the-world-itself _Death_?”

“Yes, Dean. That Death.”

He’s not sure what answer Dean was expecting, but it seems to knock the wind out of him, and he sits back as he tries to figure out what to do with this information. _That’s not even the half of it_ , Castiel thinks giddily.

“Well…” Dean runs his fingers through his hair, then rests his elbows on his knees, still thinking. “What did he want with you?”

It’s at that point that Castiel realizes—he hasn’t tried to see if Death’s promise was legitimate yet.

“Close your eyes,” he says on impulse, waving his hands impatiently when Dean gives him a puzzled look. “Just do it, okay? Trust me.”

Dean’s expression turns confused and skeptical, but he does as Castiel asks anyway. Castiel takes his hands and guides him up off the bench, then starts to lead him down the path, towards the front gate. With every step they take, his anticipation grows, and he desperately hopes that Death has carried through on his promise.

“Where are you takin’ me?” Dean mutters, but Castiel just ignores him, keeping his eyes focused on that sign, the open gate, and the world beyond it. They reach the threshold, the line in the dirt where the gates rest at night, and usually Castiel would be feeling the tug saying _go no further_ behind his sternum, but now, there’s… nothing.

His heart in his throat, he takes another step.

For the first time in over a hundred and fifty years…

He’s outside of the cemetery.

“Oh my God,” he says, his voice cracking, thick with tears of joy. Dean’s brows furrow, and before he can open his eyes, Castiel pulls him a few steps further from the gate, then spins him on the spot.

“Look,” he breathes, watching with pure elation as Dean opens his eyes. He can see the exact moment that Dean realizes exactly where he is, because his eyes widen, and then he looks down at his feet, planted firmly in the parking lot. The expression on his face must mirror Castiel’s, because he knows exactly how Dean feels right now.

“Cas, are we…”

Dean trails off, unable to finish his sentence and his words choked up with hope, but he doesn’t need to complete his thought. Castiel knows what he means.

_This is real. We’re not bound to the cemetery any longer._

“He let us leave, Dean,” Castiel whispers, grinning from pure joy as he looks back on the place that has been his home and his prison for so long. “We’re free.”

**20-3-17**

The world is more different, and more beautiful, than Castiel could ever have imagined.

**71-2-15**

Sam’s plot has been waiting for him for just over seventy years, and now it is time.

He’s content with what he’s achieved. A successful legal career, his own house in the suburbs, a lifelong marriage with children and grandchildren. He has _lived_ …

And now it is time to pass on.

He’s more than okay with it. Eileen had passed a few years ago, buried in the other half of their plot, and now he gets to be reunited with her. But most importantly, and the thing he’s been anticipating ever since he’d come to terms with the inevitability of his own death…

Is that he will get to see Dean again, one last time.

He’s spoken with Dean throughout the years, of course—every time he’d visited the cemetery, and then (to his surprise) quite a few times at his home as well. Whoever Dean had persuaded to let him and Cas leave the cemetery, he’s not sure, but it’s been so amazing knowing that Dean has been with him at times throughout his life, seeing his nieces and nephews grow up and his little brother grow old.

The hearse holding Sam’s body pulls up outside the cemetery. He hasn’t visited here in a long time, but it’s still so incredibly familiar to him, and he’s eager as he climbs out of the car. His appearance may still be old, but he feels _light_ in a way that he hasn’t in years, and it’s wonderful.

And as he turns to look towards the cemetery, he sees two figures standing on either side of the gate—a little transparent, like him. One of them, Sam doesn’t recognize, but he knows in his heart that that’s Cas, and from his kind eyes and gentle smile, Sam understands immediately why Dean fell for him.

And then he looks over to the other figure, to the sandy brown hair and freckles and that _grin_ that takes Sam right back to being twenty-four years old and breaks his heart with its familiarity.

“Dean,” he breathes, his eyes brimming with tears, and if anything, that familiar grin only widens.

“Hey, old man. It’s been a while.”

**97-6-3**

They’re under Cas’s pine tree when they finally say their last goodbyes.

This day has been coming for a while—the cemetery filled its last grave a few years ago, and ever since then, they’ve simply been the custodians. The trees Dean had created in the few years after he’d died are more than fully grown now, the church and the gazebo still in immaculate condition thanks to his and Cas’s efforts. This place has been Dean’s home for almost a hundred years, and Cas’s for even longer, and now…

Now their time is finally coming to an end.

Dean looks over at Castiel where he’s sitting with his back against the tree trunk, looking up at the sky as it fades to a deep purplish-blue. The first few stars are just starting to appear as the sun dips below the horizon.

“How are you feeling?” he asks gently.

This has to be weird for Cas, having been here for so long, but as soon as they started to fade a few weeks ago, they knew that their time here was coming to an end. They’re both almost completely transparent now, but they can still touch, and Dean takes full advantage of that as he bumps his shoulder against Cas’s.

“Hmm?” Cas murmurs, blinking up at the sky, then turning to look at Dean. He smiles, soft and slow. “I feel okay,” he admits. “It’s a little strange, the idea of leaving this place, but… I’m looking forward to seeing what’s next, and getting to share a whole new adventure with you.”

 _God, I’m so fucking lucky to have you_ , Dean thinks, suddenly hit with the full force of his own emotions and the reality of this moment.

He may have felt trapped in the past, but not once, not even during the times where he wished with all his heart that he could leave the cemetery, not once has he _ever_ regretted choosing to stay here with Cas.

“You sappy motherfucker,” Dean teases, but his heart is swelling with the same emotion. He’s never been as good at putting it into words as Cas is, so instead, he just leans over for a kiss. It’s soft, and sweet, and pours into it all his love and gratitude and the _peace_ he feels at the idea of finally being able to move on.

They hadn’t been sure if they’d ever be able to cross over, but the fading paired with the tugging feeling behind Dean’s sternum that has only grown stronger over time…

They know in their hearts that it’s time to go.

“I love you,” Cas murmurs against Dean’s lips, and when they gently separate again, his eyes are soft.

No matter what’s next, Dean can’t wait to share it with him.

“I love you too,” he tells Cas with a smile, then stands and offers him his hand. “Ready to go?”

Cas takes it, pulling himself up off the ground. For a moment, he takes the chance to just _look_ —at the stars, at the cemetery they’ve both put so much love into, at the world they’re leaving behind—

And then he turns to Dean.

“Yes,” he says, and his voice is full of quiet confidence. “I’m ready.”

They take each other’s hands and intertwine their fingers, and Dean feels that tugging feeling growing stronger in his chest. He meets Cas’s gaze, lost in that beautiful blue he fell in love with so long ago. Cas smiles, and then they both close their eyes—

And in the next moment, they’re gone.

The cemetery is quiet. The stars shine on above, endless and eternal.

Their vigil is finally complete.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed this fic! If you did, please consider leaving a kudos or comment <3
> 
> You can find me on tumblr [here](http://saltnhalo.tumblr.com), and subscribe to me on ao3 [here](https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltnhalo). Also, come join us at the [Profound Bond discord server](https://discord.gg/profoundbond), a home to Destiel fans from all walks of life <3


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